Hurricane Season
       

Evening begins as a ruptured bank

of iron-gall ink.
Horizon is an open sore, insides

of a blue.

One opening within an opening, textures
winded to lake water.

All of this motion

as if the fact of it alone
were enough to move motion from the scene of itself

As if this bitter blueness, sifting in and seeping out,

had always been the only room
in the only house.

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Copyright © 2018 Sara J. Grossman All rights reserved
from Let the House of Body Fall
New Issues Poetry & Prose
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission