Dispatch From the Eye of a Storm
Looks betray me, words betray me.
The sea is a stone road; critters glow
in the mist from a series of questions
of one kind or another. These pots
glisten in the rotting dirt. I know not
what slips through my fingers, but the
stones are covered with mud. By sunset,
it already has the feel of flesh and blood.
I go down and the scale passes over his
fingers, wood through my fingers, vine-
yards in the rain. Grass and gold come
to me. Milk and buckets cover me. The
wind picks up. Algae whistles through her.
The waves break on the country beach,
during the solar cycle before death. I
looked, afraid of the sound. Here come
the birds, the noise, the storm, the danger,
the danger. White grass, white waves, the
broken staircase disappeared into the light—
I am clean.
Moss Trill 