Her eyes cast down,
Hurling silent thunderclaps,
Coat slung over her shoulder,
She trudges along that blacktop road,
Which memory turns to dusty trail,
Leaving me to founder in her roiling wake.
I see her shoes, no,
Her bare feet,
Stir up swirls of dust
On a dirt road
Through thorny hills.
Her despondent heels churn
Clouds of cinnamon
That hover
Like hallowed haloes
Around her calves,
(around my soul)
And turn her jeans
From blue
To bitter beige.
The bright golden morning,
With its honeyed breezes,
Collapses
Before the onslaught
Of a baleful black wind
That whirls
Around my dusty heart.
Dusty Road by Clark M Zlotchew | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
$20.00Price
Clark Zlotchew is a retired professor of Spanish and the literature written in that language. He’s had years of experience on the high seas and in ports around the world, and loves travel in general. Among his 19 books is A Presence of Absence: Poetry.
