Breadcrumb #4

Kim Dietz

Her glassy eyes sulk heavily
As if she is fighting eternal sleep.

She sinks her onyx gaze into the pitfalls of a bleached, white
Dusting, resting atop the perennials along the cobbled sidewalks.

Chapped and splitting fingertips touch the cold glass;
Foggy vestiges of contact reflect inwardly

Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning,
She whispers in a breath to her chest—

An inhale of penitence.  
A storm is coming

Over the horizon through the billow
Of rolling clouds that charge electrically toward her.

She can hear the nearing of the train
A distant, and ascending hum, searing past

From within one side of her head to the other.
The rush of traffic and people and children and waking animals

Wanes in a stone wash
One droned note of passing

Like the haunt of a shadow in her mind’s eye
It disappears as quickly as the morning has returned.

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