After the hurricane,
when the rain has softened the ground
and the wind has dismantled street signs–
when the gulls are left in bleeding cries,
We go to that curve in the wood,
perfect as a fresh stain.
The bent tree on the left,
a broken statue of our harlot bones,
gazes upon us as if it can see discolored skin.
We sit upon its mangled torso.
Weave our feet through tangled limbs,
and hope it can see past
the etching of our hands.
Photo By: Bruce Aldridge
