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Charles F. Thielman – Ⅱ

Wing-stretch above Ridge




The black enchantress of the road,

clad in white linen, knows

the veins of my eyes.


Riding the lines through long nights

of the soul, what I hold onto

stars the windshield


as these mirrors cameo all

that I decidedly leave behind.


Eventually one, or another, exit ramp

will siphon sound from my lungs

and I’ll slow onto county blacktop,

fences strung taut over hill and valley.


Heron silhouetted by the sun melted horizon,

that death-orchid bloom this road climbs into.

Tired silence and the weight of boxed hours


eased off shoulders

onto a full palette array

as heron turn into dark waves


and the sky begs for color

before stars flood my imagination.