T.L. Stokes



In Snoqualmie it is spring,
the purple iris comes a little taller
above green spray, watercolors,

small bulb tongues.

Last night we talked on the phone.
I looked from the north window to the sky
thinking we have too much of everything.

Too many clouds sink the shadow
we waited for, cover the bright shell
above our heads

perfectly aligned with the earth
and a plate of embers
on the other side of the world.


There were no clouds in California.

You drove up Novato hill to describe it all to me,
you held the great shell over your head
pointing to earth's linen edge,
a gray garment
dragging across its abalone face.

I couldn't see it.

The darkness here
was mostly just the night,
coming as it does,
a slow hand over the eyes,
like falling fabric,
its silence and blindness
we take for granted.


While in Mahaweel,
we trade days for their night,
inked forms of black angels
stand like crows along the horizon,

townspeople lean on their sorrow
at the grave,
a great wound in the dry field,

there is not enough of anything
except bones,

except white skulls
at what remains of the moon.

Location: Snoqualmie, Washington
Occupation: Stable worker & Writer
Email: pongee7@yahoo.com
Publications: Ancient Wind Press, The 2River View, Pierian Springs, Ludlow Press, Comrades, the Golden Gate Raptor Observatory, Junket, Comrades Press Print, Taj Mahal Review, etc.

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