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naked limits

Updated: Apr 18, 2022

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


stirs beyond the glass, nothing

robs the morning of its miracle, nothing

robs the moment of its static.


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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