Year: 
2017

quiet in the forests of night
watching with white eyes
alone in the darkness
waiting for the one
 
the pond was torn
in ripples that marked the shore
silent as the woods around it—
and the creak of the toads
 
it was day
the wings yielded movement
in the trees that came alive
and left us behind
 
flames once wore on us
every night as we walked home—
alone now they’ve withered
with memories made along the road
 
round and round
on winter grass we’re frozen
in scenes on postcards—
forever sent in postcards
 
we built this garden—
there were sounds, muffled
that wound through the hedges in games
outstretched, like limbs at rest
 
sun came down in secret rays—
cornered, I stared too long,
became blind to their workings, burning
little by little, until I melted away
 
sand moved beneath my feet
soft as a woman’s moan
in stories told and known
from many years ago
 
I saw her off the path
slipping behind the hedges
I followed her into traffic
with noise and lights and nothing more
 
steps kept coming
sinking into the day
clear and clean as the silence
that filled the dark between
 
entangled in shrubs
with vines around my limbs as veins—
I move into the middle of a storm
swept in the floods on Noah’s plains
 
once the field was empty,
only toy soldiers lay strewn—
mist rose as the aftermath,
the sound of graves in the wind

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