Spring 2008: Issue 83

Julia Johnson

The wide range converges.

The moon dilutes itself on the plate.


A blue shape, a coat of sorts, wears itself out.

They drift now, as if laced together,


into the long distance. The path to the bridge

now farther away and beyond recognition.


The monument of want cannot predict this mapping, and they,

running tonight, shelve the directions.


As though following up wood stairs, their ears move

back, swiftly, bathed in salt.