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Liminal

Poetry & Prose | April 22, 2019

I. the walk

tiles in the morning are slick

with dew or washing

and our heels click in time with the metal kegs

cheers-ing their rims while collected

in the early mist from the front walk

of a pub

we are quiet, we shiver for the sun

has not yet warmed the sunken air

plumes are expelled from between lips or nostrils,

with hands shoved deep deep

into the confidence of pockets

we march on

II. the clouds

a fog closes in on us from all sides

and it feels like the only thing

in existence

is our little stretch of road  

beneath a big blue bus

III. the self

I am so many patterns of blue,

the sky wraps around my ankles and

tucks into my rubber boots,

a speckled umbrella swings from two fingers

by my knees

the rain tickles the tops of my cheeks

I am safe in oversized plaid rolled

to the elbows

and the leaves look up as I pass, splayed

on their backs

upon pooling, wrinkled pavement

 

I forget where I am going