Issue IX, Volume III : May 2012
| Walter Bjorkman - Poetry |
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night approaches
as we sit crowded, nothing surrounds
us. the dusk rooster crows, fireflies begin their upward spirals. no walls in this meadow are seen, touched or imagined - only skies we didn't love resentment we didn't lose. black voles skitter into a garden tangle leaving scents of abandonment, tastes of bitter tea. you wanted to dance inside a painting by van gogh not weep inside a munch. no, I will not suffer - it is too mild a fate for my offspring. my mother bore me in the botanicals, your father tore you from the sea. the brine of your brow withers me to dust.
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