ANGELA BILGER
Jacksonville, Near I-295 After the clouds empty themselves into the afternoon, I wade onto the porch, weightless, parting the palpable air. You used words to create, but you forgot to create a word for the way the bricks of the houses seem lit from within, or for the alien green halo-ing the leaves of the lone maple that trembles, saturated and effervescent. Perhaps I’ve always understood you best in the departing wall of rain, in the language of tires on the wet highway, in the glow of the atmosphere that makes me feel so grateful, and so lonely. Let me worship you in the battered, bruised-rose sky that turns this world strange.
40 | Raleigh Review
