In the empty sky
are the power of those eyes.
In static sound,
white noise
from an empty radio,
is the texture of the voice.
In fog
is the exhumed breath
of you
nourishing my skin.
-Robert L. Jackson III
Sticks
The boundary is flat
on the river.
Roots erode;
and trees cross the realm,
extending
the bare knuckles
of their bony fingers
to the travelers
above.
The swirling knots
of the waterlogged wood
stare across
and speak
to the ringed cores
of the survivors.
The fibrous matter
separates
from the soul
in the dark depths.
We wallow in the mud,
with unburied bones,
exposed,
and leaving no need
for chiseled tombstones.
-Robert L. Jackson III
Posted for Poets United midweek motif of Soul/Psyche.