A Way Through
When the poem reminds you
you’re breathing, alive
within a language
that leaves you
wordless, even as
grief pixelates
the hour
and this voice
that serves
as company
and compass
in summer’s dark
draws you toward
the margin, what
the words wash up
against, wrack zone
of sound, rubble
of sound, from which
morning emerges.
Through gaping sun
gnats amble in a spiral
vanishing into traffic.
Dispatch #14