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