by Renée Ashley
nothing left to worship.
The three-tined sun is on a string.
A chain to hang you on.
A rope to coil when you’re done.
Lately, a sharp-winged bird skims the dusk
dragging the web-footed dark.
Up there down there.
Foreground. Background.
What you can swing from.
From:
The View from the Body
Copyright ©:
2016, Black Lawrence Press
Last updated March 29, 2023