Photo Credit: Lotus Carroll, cc-by-nc-sa
Photo Credit: Lotus Carroll, cc-by-nc-sa

the purple sheath on mountain crests
it is not dawn

the stench of six day old fish
it is not rot

the click of teeth and claw on wood
it is not mice

the crush of fragments at my feet
it is not glass

the mark of black and mottled blue
it is not a scar

the crimson taint upon my collar
it is not blood

this limb, broken through the pane
it is not an arm

the thin reflection in the window
it is not me

i am not here
i must not stay

the fog dividing there from here
it is not my breath

the trickle of water, tapping at my throat
it is not tears

the crack in the wall, opening beyond
it is not a door

the void that panics in my breast
it is not love

the final flash on evening snow
it is not hope

the sigh that soothes all dissent
it is not your business

everything is fine
i am fine

the purple sheath on mountain crests
it is not dusk

Categories Poetry

Omar Willey was born at St. Frances Cabrini Hospital in Seattle and grew up near Lucky Market on Beacon Avenue. He believes Seattle is the greatest city on Earth and came to this conclusion by travelling much of the Earth. He is a junior member of Lesser Seattle and, as an oboist, does not blow his own trumpet. Contact him at omar [at] seattlestar [dot] net

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