Let me wash you awake.
Let rain dissolve our horses.
(They seem to expect it, the way they stand.)
Let solar flares roil, purify us.
My mantra—march only forward.
Do not surrender to the tragic
kiss. Feel
the ache of the oceans,
of the valleys.
All of us without you.
Oh crayon, the color of celadon,
cry me a new moon.
Outline where I refuse to end. Press
hard.
Why not leave the scattered pebbles
where we found them?
Let someone else
collect them, arrange them again
into something honeyed.
Schuylkill Valley Journal Issue 61, Fall/Winter 2026