I'm always loving myself off
a precipice, hanging from the
c r a g s by branch and string
wet down by s e a and dried
by salt, the w a l k here was
long in the tall grass that has no
trail where the wind whets the
bluffs and steals my hair from its
hood so that I am my own maelstrom
a shred of black off the cliffs, incised
into the gray like my body is only an
o p e n i n g but from far off i am
just a whistle against the headlands,
sea foam and pine needles or
the grains of sand that
never settle.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 10:09 AM UTC
I'm always loving myself off
a precipice, hanging from the
c r a g s by branch and string
wet down by s e a and dried
by salt, the w a l k here was
long in the tall grass that has no
trail where the wind whets the
bluffs and steals my hair from its
hood so that I am my own maelstrom
a shred of black off the cliffs, incised
into the gray like my body is only an
o p e n i n g but from far off i am
just a whistle against the headlands,
sea foam and pine needles or
the grains of sand that
never settle.
(c) Brooke Otto 2015
