Between Trieste and Amantea

There were mountains.

Some green.

Lots of rock.

It was twilight much of the time

except when sun spanked the horizon.

My ancestors noticed these things

only as it pertained to goat schedules

and meal preparation.

Few of us have looked up or dared

to imagine something more.

It doesn’t matter.

There is no more than mountains and

green and rock and dinner.

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Moth Relay

It was a three-man team,

following me

as I meandered

along the trail

for the first time

since bears and floods

held sway.

One moth was white,

another orange,

and the third yellow.

They flitted alongside

above the brambles

as I held my body tightly

watching and listening

for signs of danger.

They seemed to hover close

as if they were wondering,

“is she alright?”

After much shuffling

through mud and sadness,

I asked myself “am I alright?”

I made it back to my car

refreshed but with no answers

and the moths returned

to the woods.

Watchers of the aimless.

There, there

Today is tidy, all components

fitting together like a packed sausage.

Not much room for sentiment

when drowning in tedium.

The trick is to keep at least one thing

to yourself, wild and unpredictable.

It helps stave off the full brunt

of quiet desperation.

Selfish

Standing on a shifting planet

staring at soft outlines of clouds

intermingling with each other

making sky fractals

remembering how important

maps used to be

before an inner gravity

pressed the landscape

into a non-nutritive pancake.

A little syrup and morning is redeemed

but the great gaping hole

in the middle of me

is greedy and this place is uninhabitable.

Published

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Check out a poem of mine here on Skive Magazine!