Monday, August 31, 2009


This poem is in Walk the Wildly and the current issue of Going Down Swinging.


Look down that squinty street

where the greasy moon hovers

floodlights the turret chimney-run

Your rawboned hand

roams to that white place

your fingers are linnets

leave strange wings

Haphazard seas drown us out

grainy winds row us in

no words for the landslips

the whitebait of our memories

We didn't take enough photos

We said that

© Lizz Murphy

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