On Migration
A split glyph
drags south
over a parking lot.
The suction
of dusk.
We watch it
wrest
margin
from margin.
Your face
in the half-light.
The aphasia
of the shape
of your face
in the half-light.
Autumn
embalms
the hour.
Discussion about this post
No posts
Your poem reminds me of a few lines from my manuscript describing my narrator's belief in destiny: "Birds could sense magnetic fields during their migration. That meant there were literal roadmaps in the sky that humans couldn’t detect. What other unseen strings were tugging me in the right direction when the weather went bad?"
Lovely😊serene, yet a bit melancholy perhaps???🤔