Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine # 14

untitled Your wrist is used to it, baited with fingertips and the small watch that never opens though your pulse has an echo, comes from a sea already damaged by moonlight and its embrace as the cry for mother between the stones still being buried trapped in the dirt they need for darkness hour after hour pressing down on your chest listening for you among the flowers who say nothing about leaving or their shadows that wave to you.

Simon Perchik