the fringe of the morning was already ablaze
chalk feet ashen tongue
blooming alone in dormant bodies
taking skin from the patchwork of the sycamores
water from cut sapwood of elder grapevines
imagining they were our own backbones
and we had forgotten our wings
still we could see them in the breaths of shadows
spreading into the half-light lost from the room
one wing shook
a sharp memory of sea-glass
fireflies in fractured rain
the other stretched
fabric spilling from the hands
a river washing the knees of deer
the detonations of stars
warming the settled stones
one clenched hand shimmering
octane bursting
across still water
About the Creator
Timothy James Lane
Sea Ghost
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