Poetry: lone women flee by Joel Best

caught in stumble run. or, torn
by logic, stir the summer air,
hide stones in old shoes, count
rivers in silence. when, chase
down twilight to the haunted path
of Chunderbedad. and moon by
moon. and yellow, not black, the
color of midnight. as threads pulled
from piney orr-knots better than
our souls deserve. the left-behinds.
the grubby bits in gray-felt tatterbags.
a little less, a little less, rest near
the swayback sea. shelter under a
wall of tiny birds. beckon to a city
buried in the surf. because, redraw
the lines of reason. because, aim for
the faulty horizon and a gaggle of
nearsighted dillydots. gulls? clouds?
as we wish for pockets but nothing to
fill the velvet void. chasing frail tides
and bringing them back home. in
time and out of time, stroll past the
luminous storm and storm the palace
of fevers. as smoke fills the air.
burning lemon trees, bundles of
ashen clothing. and months before
we miss the sound of voices.

Joel Best has published in venues such as Atticus Online, Common Ground Review, Crack the Spine, and Apeiron Review. He lives in upstate New York with his wife and son.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s