POEM | Allen Chamberlain
Walking the Buttermilk Trail The stone I carry to your grave tastes of grit and fish. On the trail we still belong to each other. I see your body: beech leaf lightlyveined as your ankles and a ghost of ivory clinging beneath the May apple crown. These will vanish. I’ll be yanked toward emptiness, and what can pry me open then? Not even the wild phlox, clinging to the hollow.
Raleigh Review | 17