Casual wind
       

like ghosts late and lonely to the touch
crocuses blend amid salt and rain
aftertastes can be bitter, for sure
swift and dulled there's no escape
nowhere is there a pistil this orange
under a flag that never scrolls in stormy
air or squalls
dervishing
whispers in the shells of passers-by
dare to speak and night becomes a mouth

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Copyright © 2020 Shira Dentz All rights reserved
from Sugar House Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission