Another disposable medical mask
drying in the June sun after all

the ceremonies are done and all
the families have gone lifts

just a bit in a building breeze
and looks for a second like a lip

snarling in that flirting way you see
the tattooed girls snarl and then it

flips over to bare a white belly
smudged brown with breath and so

becomes a wounded moth flittering
across the road floats on to become

a banner thrown from a tower falling
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

Read on . . .

Oh Father, Your Fear,” a poem by Matt W. Miller