By Marc Huerta Osborn
dew and frost condense my window view—
rain and consciousness cross at
blighted angles
before shooting off into separate rooms. sleepwalking,
I skip across mushroom caps
toward the fog of my grandfather’s dream—
water flashes,
passengers board the angler
fish, which can’t see past
her own lovely lure, light-
-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel type of sight:
cataracts, flatnesses
flow down a stone cold reservoir, dumping
final freshness upon a numb-blooded
nerve—nothing
stirs beyond the glass, nothing
robs the morning of its miracle, nothing
robs the moment of its static.
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Marc is a writer and educator living in Alameda, California. His poetry appears or is forthcoming in Rust + Moth, The Acentos Review, Ghost City Review, and Juked. His biggest creative influences are pelicans, music, cartoons, and dreams.
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