City of Blue Ghosts
Tasks
I've completed here --
walking
over cobblestones at night,
casting
funerary flowers
from
the lip of the marina.
talking
of love on a stage emptied
except
for wristlets of ivy.
And
such things dance, or sigh,
simply
carry themselves along a breeze
between
storefronts.
I
will rise to my summons here,
and
dance among them, and the river
will
carry our laughter, and sighs.
Remembered
Language
Like
pigeon tracks in the snow,
on
the sidewalk outside the coffee shop --
our
cuneiform, our secret words --
whispers,
jokes, witnessing.
I
will gather them for you.
I
will keep them even in your silent space.
Out of Dreams
Dark
river of sleep,
I
wind two strands,
between
waking, and night.
Such
poor bones.
Such
poor breathing,
nothing
makes way
for
the coming light.
A Fallen Birch Tree
In
the oasis of shadow,
like
a broken bough of lightning,
its
white skin peels, discards,
decays,
into froth.
Something
is reaching --
a
fever of populace --
lacking
sighs, or rebuttal
to
mark its blooms.
Bright
caps govern
a
second sun.
When We Were Floating
We
laughed
among
strings of coloured lights,
like
trees, dancing on the river walk.
We
never could judge true
among
gondolas in the balmy air,
or
music from violins, and a giddy song,
and
no cold dawn could find us.
No
temper, no morning's drowse.
Meg
Smith is a writer, journalist, dancer and events producer living in Lowell,
Mass., USA.
Her poetry has recently appeared in The Cafe Review, Poetry Bay, Trouvaille Review, Beliveau Review, Star*Line: Official Journal of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association, and many more.
She is author of five poetry books and a short fiction collection, The Plague Confessor.
She welcomes visits at megsmithwriter.com, Twitter @MegSmith_Writer, and Facebook.com/megsmithwriter.
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