Sing
Some people sing –
It’s a sentiment I crave
Like the desolate moon
Drip-dry of felt.
These waves run to black
As I weave this rolling pattern
Shimmering to the fore
Where we forget this,
The rhythm of the day
The luster of the sky,
Blazing.
A purse lined with nothing,
Scabbed knees praying low
While the blackbird sings
To waken the dead silence
Seeping in a spiral of stars,
Edging into the mind
Where everyone forgot
How to.
copyright Vickie Johnstone
