Sunday, September 30, 2007

"The Horai"

At the horizon line the sky is the color of summer skin touched with delicate jet trails crossing patterns into the thinning atmosphere. They whip stitch the clouds together, building the blanket of coming winter. I gather it to my chin. The moon hangs petulant, a silver sickle beheading the crowns of the Horai, scattering them among the rising stars, barely perceptible above the curves of the highway. The high road leans like a well built woman in repose, slicing the faded light with her hips, thick with sin and destruction I drive into willingly. Aleathia Drehmer 2007

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I'm trying to contact you as we have published some of your work in erbacce; want to send you a free copy but the email you supplied doesn't work. Can you email me at please?

Alan Corkish (Editor erbacce poetry journal)