by Brynn Dizack
what an impossible sound:
our collective death.
seaglass gray, or
limbs in the dark,
(mottled with the
blue-black of contact)
most nights i
put my hands on you
until you can no longer speak,,
until all your sounds are buried
in the snowdrifts of your breathing.
these surefooted days without water,
i am quiet,,
quieter than sleep,
or the anticipation of failure--
Posted on 04/29/2011
Copyright © 2022 Brynn Dizack
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 04/29/11 at 10:52 PM|
That ending has such a beautiful, haunting refrain to it. Loved the whole thing.
|Posted by Anita Mac on 05/04/11 at 11:39 PM|
I am w/ Gabe. The ending is so perfect for the piece as a whole-- and what a whole! Breathtaking, little bird.