by Bertha Rogers
They are always here, they are always dead,
they are always traveling through our heads—
those who left early, the ones who crashed and
died, the drinkers, the dopers, suicides.
They gyrate our cycloidal streets, wearing
nothing but hurricane wraps and whirlwind
sleeves—so handsome, so pretty, so perfect—
ready for wrecks, drownings, and slashings!
We are always watching, nearly catching
them from the curved corners of our eyes—there,
sudden as a sunset, expiring like flies.
We scrutinize their unbodied traces—barely
out of range yet so diminished we can’t quite
seize their brief gleam, fluorescent strangeness.
~~~~~
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Author Bio
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| Bertha Rogers’s poems have been published in literary magazines and journals. More > |