VESPERS
so what if I'm
smoke a billowing
shapelessness a
signal someone was
here loved
fucked up so loud
they can no longer
hear their own
remnant voice
ring ting ting-ing
into oblivion
like gulls
shitting off cliffs
decades swallowing
sea salt promises
the end is as wet
as the womb
some nerves surrender
to the numinous
thrum of a forest
floor adorned
with snapped twigs
splayed viscera
of a dead deer
lambent stars
crying on the arrow-
shaped leaves
of the sorrel
a fleecy white moth
fluttering
in the veiled
shade of a pine
I know some morning
glories only open
to the dulcet deepening
of dusk
some prayers
can only be spoken
to a purpling
sky
some fists
only unclench
when there's nothing left
to strangle
This poem was originally published in the March 2015 issue of Cloudbanks & Shimbleshanks. Cover photograph by Darla Mottram.