Smoke billows from my mouth,
decades disintegrating into
train trestles, shotguns, and
Charleston.
A stairway to heaven
on James Island
can’t reach the beach.
Clouds whip across the great,
flying colored sky
until mountains and trees
give resistance, breaking
the wind into pieces
I slip into my pockets,
hauling them out later,
indoors,
where they recall their purpose
and blow through me.
Cirrus clouds
live in my lips, hurricane
rain falling horizontally
from
my eyes. Nothing
that has ever tasted freedom
consents to
being contained.
About the Creator
Harper Lewis
Intrusive rhyme bothers me, except as a weapon.
Intertextuality is my passion.
Formalist/ New Critical are my guiding theories.
My words are mine, not a robot’s.
MA English literature, CofC
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