Theresa C. Gaynord


Fresh ruffles
of surf, rising, pattering against beams of steel

the sky with treble interjections; convulsive gyrations

of effortless
rage, lightnings on waves, cold and bare, gather

under a spring moon.

He wanted
to tell her between the stretches of electricity that

made the
tulips bleed with poignant scent, filling the air with

the thought of it a simple thing, the solid paces of

God’s own calmness.

What kind
of witness would she be? The rain whispers, intimidates

the dying
to lie down with the dead, disappearing into vapors,

and sealing down edges of brick and mortar, desperately

to become eroded.

She stops,
spreads her arms apart, his heroic figure of comfortable

catches her breath between the metaphors of sunlight,

his words,
swirling wants against frozen lips; she knows. Loneliness

her soul as she looks down suffering vertigo.

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