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Contemporary
March 13, 2019
A pedestal that grafts bones for its support
Accepted for the moments it would bring us rapport
Feet glued to some king we’re all trying to be
We can’t see that we’re lost in a storm
Sightlines bring freedom,
travel to our kingdom
We would return seldom
to ground.
Obscuring our vision
with the bone of our own
A seam of sawdust in the sky
and sorrow is the soft rag;
and too a blindfold
We don as we trace our tongues over the line
© Brynne L., Williamsburg, VA
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