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Untitled/White on Blue
Mark Rothko, 1968
Lorelei Bacht
The moon glimmers
the scenery silent,
knee-deep and
white asleep.
*
The moon shades
our boot-prints
in half-remembered
crisp blue notes.
*
The moon snowflakes
patterns around
our specks of grief,
stitching a forgiveness
*
The moon glistens
the sleep of our softest
embodiments: the wren,
the tit, the finch.
*
The moon halts
our travels: she throws
a bejeweled blanket
over the hills,
declares: to bed.
Part finch, part poet, Lorelei Bacht has been weathering middle-age somewhere on the edge of a forest. Her work has appeared / is forthcoming in ONE ART, SWWIM, Sinking City, The Inflectionist Review, Sonic Boom Journal, and elsewhere. She makes infrequent visits to Instagram @lorelei.bacht.writer and Twitter @bachtlorelei
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