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She tastes the rime of a missing minute,
Record skipping across the chill
Of an unfinished thought
And wades, trousers rolled,
Into the downstream tide pool of liminal grief.
This dissonant backlit angel I cannot save.
I long to hear the voice of breath,
To commune, converse,
To skip rocks across the source
Of all that is precious to me.
How, too, can this supplication be
Stilled and swallowed
By a yawning wellspring?
Oh, not this one. Not this one.
How heavy is the hollow pause
Of an unmoved god.
© 2026 Joli Dy