:::::::::::::::::::::::::CAMILLE MARTIN

the bereft beacon

during the ink of midwinter, close

to our hearts that falter and carry on,

we are double-edged and angelic,

spying on remote souvenirs born

to the errors of a unison throwing off

its disguise within empty space.


the time of day, with its hard clods, is ready

despite its milliseconds, sleepless and benign,

to keep its ineffable hoax word for word

in suspense, like an ageless worker

who holds his breath beneath his mask.


its essence is ragged. when with its trifles

it chooses to settle the dispassionate illusion

of dark with its dust, again and again

its indistinct yes’s and no’s resemble

the absurd predicament of flesh that is scarred

and lost at the brink of the birth of

still water, beneath a heroic fabric of silence,

and that leaves no trace without sacrifice

despite stretching to the sky.