By Michael McGriff

Tonight, the whiskey fires burning
on the moon move through me
like a hammer swung in the dark,
and if you are water the moon
is painting itself across you.

If you are water I am running my hands
through you. If you are water
my left hand is a horse thief
my right hand is alder smoke
drifting the ridge.
I am the old dike road
and you are pushing your wet shoulders
into the black silt of me.
I am a piece of glass
falling through itself.
But you are not water, and I am
on my knees bent over the edge
of the dock, moving my hands
through the vague glimmer
of distant cities, the bioluminescence
coiled around each finger.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: