Sunset on t e Antri

Poetry 12

He can feel a giant skipping stones in his chest and building a causeway beneath his crashing breath.

He wants to weep like the red cliffs whose soft clay and pipe organ rib cage are laced with pale green and sinking gold.

His eyes water and close against the sting of her clean cold wind, and he turns his collar up against the spray of her black sea,

and yet he is fond of her, and still lays offerings of footprints at the feet of her faithful tide.