“…our passing
is common as ash”
~ D. Bonta

Here at twilight, the smell
of earth after days of rain;
and over that, salt trace

carried over by wind
from the coast.
We climbed

the winding wrought-
iron staircase to look
over the mouth

of the bay. Inside
the tower’s bell-
shaped skirt,

the morning’s heat
another sheath
not yet shed—

Would we have known
where to look, or how
to find the pain budding

even then? The way
some things nest quietly
before they are noticed.

The way fog obscures
the shore, these rocks
that have always been here.


In response to Via Negativa: Immortal bird.

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