Glare
Lots of rocks in the black
pock-marked yonder-
in the star quarry,
lots.
Dead moonlight in my hand
cools and shrinks.
Unseen,
mind-dust kindles
in the charred sky fields.
A pebble needs throwing.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment