Poetry of Issue 9:Eighteight

troglodyte in the sun,

on a rock, wishing only

for rain, for a pool, for a drop

of water to fall on flickering

tongue, for an end-date

to this lockdown, your face

in the water feels empty

w/o a mask, and 50 meters

too long, the bronx county court-

house once a marsh, the grand

concourse a ridge the lenape

walked, and you soon

extinct

in memory like yr ancestors

the celebrated and breath-

taking bison, goats, little

lascaux horses running

thru cave walls

to eternity

sat., 8.8.20: 11:02 pm