May 2016 - Comments Off

Cole Sherlock Hersey

Mountain, Sage, Obsidian

Rolling steppe of sage.
The road a mile West
motions. The dead here
don’t seem dead. The living
alive, look to mounds of obsidian
on the sand, and the Sierras,
West look like tired old ones.
And here, it’s all mutual.
Soft and slow, never stopping
but still and quiet, only
with the house finches on the rocks,
asking how we got so loud.

Two Gulls

Two gulls above
the street and café
below sun
and cloud
and blue sky.
Look down
to write down
the moment.
Look up again.
One gull has left.
The other there
alone on the wire.

Published by: in Issue 2: Spring 2016, Poetry

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