Dusk at river’s shore, knife-edged wind comes as revelation
more tactile than my state of mind which slips easily
into the warp clinging between brazen day
and cautious night, lit by clouded moon, taunting stars.
I have lost the ability to dream, currently, only able to picture
myself trapped in the forks of trees that sketch black
angles against slashes of pink and orange
in the mutating sky. I take some small comfort in knowing
it is the natural order of things. We are all trapped
somewhere between the lines of our own stories.
— Linda Gebert