Judder
Is this a
rip in time
where we
judder on repeat,
anchors set
midway,
never up,
never down?
We count
stories backwards
instead of
reading the lines,
watch birds
walk on water
and whales
mount the skies.
We float in
discrete bubbles,
apart, not feeling
true,
wrapped
inside cotton clouds,
looking for
a voice.
With the
world we are done,
only
waiting on the freeway
while neon
signs on-off wink
to a twisted
track of sunlight
carried in
on the ebb and flow.
Drill your
toes into wet sand,
and feel
the sun creep inside
your skin,
watering emotions
you thought
were comatose
until the
rough sea subsides,
creeping
out, creeping in.
We are
tepid. We are found.
Vickie
Johnstone, copyright February 13, 2021
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