Tuesday, January 22, 2019

Rik George writes

The Presence

You sense a presence in this place. 
I feel a chill, dead, mass of air. 
You think it’s a ghost, one of your race 
still uneasy in its rest. 
Your talk prickles my neckline hair. 
Moonset is orange in the west; 
some angry cloud has tinted the white. 
My unease grows as you draw close. 
I put my fingers on your wrist 
and wish the day would rush the night. 
I measure the stutter of your pulse. 
You take my hand and say, “Let’s run! 
I do not like whatever it is.” 
We run and hills swallow the moon.
Image result for fleeing from moon paintings
Vessel -- Lucy Campbell

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