Member-only story
Predawn and a Verandah of a Hundred Years
~The past, dead water of my eyes~
Remembered night flowers
footholds that became vanished waters
wet wet night of remembered tears,
full-bodied nuances,
and predawn stirred.
Predawn stirred,
like a prairie’s sigh rustles
under fading stars,
and my heart turned.
In the dense dense air,
my heart broke again and again.
The air, still — as still as fate lines
in any season in anyone’s hand —
sat on dewdrops moulded
into balled silences,
each one a reflected
chilled dream of fecundity
twisted out of a dead mans eyes.
My own eyes swam in dead water
that once rang to
calls of rainbows of fishes,
sang to herons and wildflowers
and watched wet wet nights
gurgle and softly sigh,
drink up days full of dreams
born in nights musky groin.
