Micropoetry 7-26-2020

in a country
far across the foam
he revels in the respect
he’d written off at home

once the mask is off
and laid to rest
we move
here in the stillness
within the vision before us
unable yet to hear the words

in sandscape nightmares
he wanders off half-clothed
to the skeleton gate
that waits the steps he loathes

stopped at port
for a stay
where all the words
may never last
another day

collecting the words
that travel between the thoughts
he never could exchange

gray eye
in the black of night—
watching us, unfeeling
as if we were already
at one with those undead

washed ashore
he bathes in the song
of the circling wolves

morning bird
yellow-green upon
my window pane—
when all is silent
you wake the dead

discordant strings—
she sits there silent
while the words
still linger in the air


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