31
Vo l . 2 N o . 2
Anne Millbrooke
Christopher Lee Miles
Hybrid
Dirge
A little rhythm and a little rhyme, lyrical smitham, measured and metered, everything in its place and in its time.
You, who are lost to me, I’m finding you in the tawny grasses, the pale cinder.
function not form
What you left behind begins growing. I follow like roots, like a mangy calf.
fly
fly
over under and in the clouds
or range, but some quadrant far beyond time. There, every color is you, enfolding
words fly
here you in purple, yellow waxing your face. You, who are beneath the grass, are above
here and over there content with content
Hills, I know you are beyond them, sleepless, Touching a dimension that is not height
the ground. I lose and lose you, I who keep finding you, facing you, and finding you.
Tim Troll