Poetry & Prose

Old Saybrook Steam

You’re in your November hour.

Cheek grasses

cling, pewtery rough.


June’s honeysuckle breath

aged to spice.

And smoke.


And Abraham gave up the ghost.


Sunk into the rufous leather,

my damp hair rests beneath

your brambles.


Cast iron promises

clang in my consciousness. We’re all

polished by the years.


On the stove, something’s

simmering. Future forged.

We clamor to be near it.

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