Rhadha Marcum

Issue #
September 27, 2015


           Unmoored in a watermark—
dead ocean this country

depends upon—who can tell what
           survives? Not this

           jet-scratched sky. Not this
last puff

set into the pine shafts. What dark
           comes over us, like sugared water?

           What motor surging?
What moon plank?

Waterless wind makes its own song—
           tidy, temporal.

           Unmoored in dust—even the dust
a telling country. No,

it shifts, way to know.
           And so, go to the river.

           Trust me. I’ll name the first star

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