Tilting Toward Winter
       

The air is gray and quiet as the sea's
wet-dying warmth. A blackbird
screams out from memory and, pleased
with its sour chirping, keeps at it undeterred
by the browning season. I have everything
I could wish for —this air, this sea, this night.
We tilt toward winter, though the sand is spring
sand, erotic and youthful. Spirits are light
as May lasciviousness. But blood swells
to shore in cool disintegrating waves—
gone summer and gone winter aren't real.
I walk into the unwarm froth, say farewell
to my selves that have died and pray for those still
to die — their wet wombs, their thick-salt graves.

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Copyright © 2014 Okla Elliott All rights reserved
from The Cartographer’s Ink
NYQ Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission