Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Untitled

the sky, bruised and battered from a bar fight with dawn,
bent down
and pressed his fingers
against the gushing moonlight at his temple

he watched the waves stumble into the harbor

and turned a tattered grin to the children
tossing in bed
threw his arms above his head

and said, “sad little ones, where
do you think you can get away to in one goddamn lonely night

to where dreams dust up dawn and run rampant
to where dreams turn up the engines, rev past fucking reality?”



so sun, swift and sober, scooped the children into her warm arms
and clenched to her belly,
purred them awake

--Frances Saux is a writer from San Francisco who enjoys reading and watching the fog.

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