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by Brynn Dizack


what an impossible sound:
our collective death.

seaglass gray, or
milky-white, your
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.

oh,, in
these surefooted days without water,
i am quiet,,
quieter than sleep,
or snow,

or the anticipation of failure--

04/29/2011

Posted on 04/29/2011
Copyright © 2019 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.

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