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
I will rise to my summons here,
and dance among them, and the river
will carry our laughter, and sighs.
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
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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