Artificial suns,
they won’t take away
hands clambering

against chills brought
by reinforcement
without rules,

also a poet goes down.
Not here for her…
So we are tides

against Fire Island,
restless and changing easily,
born in pain–

I feel it everywhere, now,
missing a good scene of red,
don’t squirm–

get it over rapids
slicing through a face
in the cracks of mountain-

sides, breaking glass
using tools to understand

no biological possibility,
I can’t feel anything, it’s fine…
Go after the ones closet to him,

constant tinge of trying
to bring his blue
eyes out of the green river

Published by Kristiane Weeks-Rogers