I hold evenings in your hands, edged
with curves that round their ends. They
shade patterns on the ground,
dense as thoughts that fog the coast.
Breezes flood approaching waves, unraveling
the air that tests our pulse. It’s the pattern
of possessions leaving the sun,
fading like objects before sleep.
Sounds of birds that haunt the cliff
stretch premonitions on our palms.
We clutter footprints on the sand, frantic as
thumbprints clashing into the night.
Petals crumble without sound,
mute as constellations in a dream.
This is how winters choke
the fog, or vague perditions
in our guilt. The fulcrum
we call sky has tilted once again,
in maps that monitor
the edges of our eyes.
Roads accelerate through
hills and clouds, dense as
thread our days.
Michael Caylo-Baradi lives in California. His work has appeared in BlazeVOX, Blue Fifth Review, Eclectica, Ink Sweat & Tears (UK), Latin American Review of Books (UK), Metazen, MiPOesias, Our Own Voice, Prick of the Spindle, The Common, and elsewhere. He is a reviewer at NewPages.
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