by Renwick Berchild

The misty ridden morning
waits like a pendulum in mid swing,
cross and blue, no longer alive,
leopard printed in death’s oily colors.

I untie the souls, with the windows
curving swards bent under the dewy dunes,
haled by dawn’s wet forehead,
no graves have been dug for this.

Choose to lie back down.
Bitter shadows rimming each wall,
banking into sheets of balled rice
I’ve spun far beyond the slick streets.

What do you know of bleak skies?
Bone bouquets drop deafened ears upon
the trestle table warped in sun;
the fog’s sunk out of sight.

I’m still weary, drenched in light,
hours trumpet with bright hats donned.
Holding on to my wilted robe
I decide grief should not be settled.


One Comment to “Unsettled”

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