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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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