Jul/Aug 2018 Poetry |
Image courtesy of British Library Photostream
Fence
with empty beer bottles up-
side down on each pole.A thin whip cracks through the holes.
Kindling stick faces outtoward a tree topped cloud.
There used to be an arbor.We used to wander with little
clothes between stringy leaves.Waiting for the flashlight. Moth
hit against a half open window.We used to rub bare feet in grass.
Before the banished shadow,before guilt sutured our lips shut.
You were the tentative talker,I was the head-down listener.
The grass is brown needles.Shale sticks in my throat.
There is sleep for everyone except us.The sky is pocked with holes.