While I stood in the stillness, slept
deep in the bones of men,
I must have looked like a fool.

Against the crag, beyond our fears,
the smallness of my nape tightens: its air,
exhausted over the course of winter.

I look across the sands of salt and fervor,
weep for what I may have lost - gentle
        as the hands I imagined
        along my spine.

It is here, beside the low wooden fence
that whispers the road home, here where
I will surrender, weightless
as the dying moth.

        And if I stand in ill repute, my
heart beating against the black clouds of
this storm -

may you come find me.



©2006 by Cherilyn Ferroggiaro