The pale grub of the moon
keeps staring...
Naked
flats of mud,
water-riven
and shivering,
pull
at the receding tide
as great welts
of memory
cross-hatch
the goose-bumped
bay.
Black sky
cracks
against blue-black sea...
susurrus
of wind
through
Eucalyptus...
I lean
into
the falling
smell
of death.
more from the author
-
The sheep have moved to higher ground
- May 4, 2017
-
This marriage
- Jun 2, 2016
-
The thing about landslides
- Dec 31, 2015
- More »
