A Lingering Wreckage

Lana Bella

Pale eyes settled into the roar 

of gust across the wasteland;

fingers dragged up vertigo of 

winter air like red calligraphy. 

Your voice, a matte haunting, 

took its time to throb slow and 

sped black in the footlights, clefs

piled as sigils on mass graves.

A merest falling felled, you felt

too wrecked with the whistlings

of dark wood and bleared music,

where only the exact sequence

of split breaths feathered long

the glacial eaves. Synaptic atoms

of broken bodies, you calloused

flow the liquid dawn, stiffened in

the flutes of knife-teeth silver mere.