Another disposable medical mask
drying in the June sun after all
the ceremonies are done and all
the families have gone lifts
the families have gone lifts
just a bit in a building breeze
and looks for a second like a lip
and looks for a second like a lip
snarling in that flirting way you see
the tattooed girls snarl and then it
the tattooed girls snarl and then it
flips over to bare a white belly
smudged brown with breath and so
smudged brown with breath and so
becomes a wounded moth flittering
across the road floats on to become
across the road floats on to become
a banner thrown from a tower falling
out of myth rolls over and over until
out of myth rolls over and over until
it is a single eye trying to blink out
a bug or just the dust of what’s coming
a bug or just the dust of what’s coming
Read on . . .
“Oh Father, Your Fear,” a poem by Matt W. Miller
