In motion, about to sing,
the viewer walks and walks
as if hunting for childhood
and death to imbue the foggy air
in upswelling umbers. Her wished-for gift
has slid into the emptiness, low,
or in the corner, the space surrounding
her movements. Driven to remain
while she knows the artist, mesmerizer,
touches chance, none of it makes sense.
From slow gel, what emerges?
Not a forest. Not pretend or metaphoric births.
Sureness of self, in this breathing state.
Encounter, burning to ash in the emptiness
around airborne parrots, a juxtaposition
of fragile secrets about what lies beyond.

Categories Poetry

Pamela Hobart Carter loves Seattle as much for its water and mountains as for its bustle and creativity. She explores the Emerald City daily while walking her dog. Carter used to be a teacher who wrote on the side. Now she is a writer who teaches on the side.

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