PoetryRepairShop 03.10:118
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MATTHEW RETOSKEBleachfields
Maladroit and sinister, I stride-
Across the bleachfields, through canals
Of milk and sunlight- the rite
Of the needle's passage,
Bearing curved sword thunderstorms
Sheathed in crescent silk of Turkish blue
Like the mother of moons.
The flickering forms of ghosts
Wait on the banks of withering rivers
For the coming gift of rain
To this parched land;
Yet it clings to cloud, dangles and quivers
Like nectar that drips from the tips of wings
In a harem of sleeping angels.
copyright MidWestern WaterMusic
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