Poetry | June 19, 2020

Because Deathbolts Illuminate the Wonderstorm


Cruel, the highway that

took the dogs.


I’ve seen its shoulders

convulse gently in the crying of nightfall


the way a teenaged girl can be

both vicious and vulnerable.


It doesn’t like what it has done,

and I don’t like to say it.


Sometimes I hold a kaleidoscope

to my beloved’s eye

and ask him

to never look at anything again

but me.


How can I trust a world

that hasn’t yet

honored the softness in his pupil?

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