Turarlin

In the parking lot the radio voice is draped with insect wing buzz. There is an impossible stillness and then the sky cracks open; a beetle’s carapace crunching underfoot. From the gaps in the blue, water pours in thin ribbons, seeping into the rusk-dry concrete: coaxing it into wakefulness. On the riverbank, spent pyres poured their slow centuries of ash, bone, teeth, into the sand. Now the Portland cement is speckled tutti-frutti and next door, they sell carbohydrates and food colouring in glossy paper.

If you drop steel anchors into this water, stained-hibiscus red and just as sour, could you count how many fathoms the chains spilled before they held earth again? Farther than I can touch aluminium ships trail soft outlines of their passing, tearing sky into strips of cobalt to be glued in whatever shape you please.

criticism: https://www.reddit.com/r/poetry_critics/comments/6opops/little_star/ https://www.reddit.com/r/poetry_critics/comments/6opyl9/noise/