Posted at 19:37h
in
by Melinda Appleby
There is a pulsing in the deep
grain. I lay my cheek to cold
abrasion, feel the crystal rub of it,
filling my palm, heavy with time.
It takes my warmth, takes flesh
from bone. Greedy, it worms
inward, carrying a wind that cuts
and cries, like a bird soaring
across glaciers, looking...