Wednesday, January 07, 2015

A Third Coast


On the brine of memory
the ink of veins marks spots

It is a storm of forgetting;
at each sob, she jettisons

Parents as they were, embraces
in sorrow how they now are

sweeps it all into feeling
grabbing and flailing even so

_



an unfolding

I have been dreaming of people invisible mountains I exhaled  into existing twisting, quickening and though  short-lived as grass, are seeds...