she occupies the cusp where shoppers exit bringing out privilege’s bright shadows filmed in plastic the weather pretends nothing here no friends no green lace no cushioning from glare see fingers bared to frost-wounds like bloodied stars and skin broken open in climate’s heave & yaw amongst this dirt, this raw rasp of pavement life she knows no poultice from the sun no pencil stand to keep her dry between thunder’s darts only this truth what are we without our sleeping bags? perhaps just skinless larvae waiting for the slash of beaks
Written for Twiglet #297 “a bright shadow”
Out of the Cave 
Loved this one
Sent from my iPhone
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Thank you!
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This could have many interpretations, Jo. Very intriguing.
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Hmmm. I am so curious, Tracy. I only know the interpretation I intended. What other ones are you thinking of?
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Powerful and disturbing (as it should be)
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Thank you Debi!
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Pulls you out of reverie in a hurry!
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Thank you. These things pull us up short don’t they?
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Love how you describe weather’s callousness and those last two lines are haunting.
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