Solivagant
why would she be found
in a club wearing thigh high
leather boots, stiletto heels –
cardboard boxes clustered,
with silverfish, exposing
vulnerabilities. she is a papercut
on an open road
halfway between sweet birch
& thunder. those are freezing
sands of algae & spirulina
caught in her tangled intricacies
in the isles of dawn. she can’t
quite sit down – rising starlit sky
old rotting driftwood shores
crags & cliffs, secondhand
dreams pass her by, and by.
gray brackish water, smooth
silhouettes flying, falling between
her serrated breaths,
wintergreen iris marveling
briny sea breeze invoking some
nameless, shapeless magic.
she’s hitchhiking, windblown,
into tesseracts of rocks, throwing
glances, sideways, at what could
have been, why it is what it is.
next stop must be the gyre, the cone
twisting her back, tugging at her
paltry lanyard, lethal hope,
unfaithful tether, lateral taproot
of faults. why & how her cold feet
sing, skip, climb this precipice of doubt –
when her nutmeg hair, licorice smile
do the unthinkable. cast iron hands,
mercurial her middle name –
she flirts with her moxie, fiddles with
the shutter lens, snap all goes dark.