Umbriate Press Poetry

Spiritless in deed, motionless in soul, this rock in the wind turns my path to dust.

Water somehow emotes regret at not being lover to the sun, its heart of heat and vivid colors dark beyond the frames of my eyes falling into my cheeks.

Were I an outlayer, I would have sought where now I stand—but only a woman whose feet resemble brittle brick and shrink into the knot of a toenail with each step taken, bitten by the wind.

Last night I stumbled sightless into daylight, it was as if in a dream that I sang of rain, tumbling forward I spit into the wind the vessel of my breath.

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