The Mighty Might Be

In February the slush of the sky
meets the slush of the mind,
bleached bleached bleached
and always already a river to cross.

Beached but the hull is sound.
Hear that? Random pipes,
that unknown bird, that rim
always catching the water.

It's not the world we're
talking about. Tones and chimes
in the drawer the click
of the heater,

weeping behind the fronds.
Wonder how to talk, hover above
the dead marigolds, moth out of season,
cloth of holes.

Without the holes,
the thread is useless. There's no saint
for this but plenty of devils right
outside the door.

            You know what to do.

Published in Little Survivors Everywhere, phafours press, October 2026