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

 

 

 

 

 

 

copyright 2014 by Sarah J. Sloat

home

about rhp

contact us

 

 

Words to Cure the Tameness

guest editor: Sara Biggs Chaney

The Note

Lauren Gordon

Mary Buchinger

Sarah J. Sloat

Afterword

right hand pointing

main page

submit