Little Fugitive 1
Summer’s onset–the palms
flattening in the wind, the water,
alive and invasive where
they never were.
There is nothing missing in the notion of
how readily you can be scraped away
and—I asked you
yet by then the yard was filled,
bird after bird–
you couldn’t help but hear.
The thin bones
of how we begin—despite the sun, burning
holes through everything
on the trees
as they bend in the wind
like nothing, ever,
was the matter.
Little Fugitive 2
in the bluster, seeds sent through
Part bloom, part canker—one never knows
when to intervene, if ever, or
if the only, true, avenue
is indeed a dead end.
In the low trees, the shore birds
make a nest of everything.
The best cast off,
salvaged bits, really, when I had no right–
day-to-day, collapsing star:
your sea-voice begins in the river.
Currents, which you never noticed,
pass muster beneath the bridge
where the lights are.
Like elephant literary journal on Facebook.
Assistant Ed: J. Andersson/ Ed: Bryonie Wise