White Rock Lake/Garland Thrift

poem

bodies sweat
compact
in oppressive
black

they tug on
the trailing
hems of
frail,
who cushion
frantic footfalls

april 2nd -

Tears trace snail's paths.

Pain is pulled out from between

the ribs in tendrils

coiling

amidst the debris,

room to breathe

as icy insects prickle through layers of fleshy gauze

what was once

trapped

underneath the moist soil

is now ready

for rest

and loving

april 1st - the sky is ours

the sky is ours

free to wander over empty fields

a tight crouch,

bending

towards the earth

in pursuit of a milky eyed creature's scuttle

a spark touches and quickly

retreats

weaving in solitude

through quivering flesh and crumbled root

close to home,

we look

over our shoulders at the land we just left

as twined limbs trail in our wake