somber, breathless as shadows,
settles again into each prayer –
suggestive, the way cold and color
through long winters implicate themselves
miles deep into memories, or old ambitions
murmur behind a tumbledown barn.
From that distant someone who sits
and only listens, pleased at the entreaties,
we’ve asked for understanding,
set aflame such desires – offerings
now: torn from us, they spark, crackle –
to seal with hurt our too-many regrets,
our desperate reinventions, marking these
promises with dark, rough crosses.
Steve Wilson’s poetry has appeared in journals and anthologies nationwide; as well as in six collections, the most recent entitled *Complicity* (2023). He lives in San Marcos, TX
