Drift
baby ghost
wrinkles the river
I gaze
at its drowsiness
as I masticate
on the meanings of why
because inside me is misaligned
and its cold, sleepy eye
- cautionless -
shall twitch
like visible white noise
when TV boxes snap
neither shoals
nor skipping stones
breaches the facade of a conspiratory sea
river rattles
'cause it's my baby's ghost:
The Deer Hunter
picked her blossom
tending his garden
of wicked passion
for crooked lotuses
laying dead
afloat
Copyright © Trina Layne | Year Posted 2025
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