This light-shape, perfectly lean. We
press against it with our chins.
Sometimes we text details:
shouts or doubts
irridescent trails, short forms of
nestle-connective—
surfers gathering.
This seems to be a new
rather, baggy heft of we,
a ghostly gull's sweep—beautiful lulls
of gliding minds.
Changing sails, naked pearls, downy sirens, all
in a curious circle,
salting the smile.
The wooden sea is brutal—
waves crude and somber—the lost machine of bridged suns.
We stand with flabby shoulder sockets, weighted
faces under feathered curls—shapes more delicate
as a dark wind blows the passing moon,
that scalloped slur.
Tasha Klein lives in Monroe County, West Virginia.
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