Mica
The eyelid browses down
like a tunnel wall collapsing
in a mudslide and all
the automobiles and spitfire drivers
slam softly into
the crucified for slumber’s sake one man
no other way around this
brown blur with black in it
litter of nickels,
and dimes.
S a r a h J . S l o a t
guest editor: Sara Biggs Chaney
Afterword
copyright 2014 by Sarah J. Sloat