Here’s the stain,
and an orchard of clouds
sleeping. The crows flee
on August’s blunt edge. I see
a distant coldness,
the skirt of the sun shirking.
The tide is loud with the drowned
and the windy chains of gulls.
The air smells of salty bone
and the womb forgetting.
By the rotting light I breathe,
counting the pretty darknesses.
From ‘Throats Full of Graves’. First Published at ‘Ink, Sweat and Tears’.
I have one signed copy available. If interested please email me firstname.lastname@example.org