Postcard with Tomorrow’s Phobia

(Mendocino Cliff, J. Ambry)

           What passes for the sky is a burial at sea. 
           Below that, trees shoulder the horizon, 
           a stone poses as a thought too grey to lift. 
           Wind curves the long blades of grass 
           back to earth. The cliff’s sheer 
           devotion to the waves is crumbling.

           The malignant flowers. 
           The estuary mud. 
           How the rain hurried us
           inside. Night leading
           to night. Our antlers 
           on the floor. Our furred 
           feet chained to luck,
           then the rearview.
           Be with me. 
           Not to remember, 
           but to dismember.

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