In which
Language was spoken
And retrieved
Read back internally
Like a handwritten letter
Each syllable recognized
As a unique characteristic
Of whoever’s speaking,
A single accent
Describes the sand
That fell
As if skin cells spilling
From crumpled jean pockets
In trying to retrieve
A cigarette or smile,
From tongue movements
And hands moved as if
Directing a theater play of puppets,
Bare feet pressed to driftwood
Walking along to the cadence
Of whispers filling night sky
With constellations and bookmarks,
Read a page while the attention is still held-
“There’s enough of us
Lying about
Folding between each matchstick
And moon dance
To make a better version
Of ourselves”


Author: Montana Svoboda

I'm a genderless poet currently living in Central Michigan where I attend college for Environmental Science and English. Nature's some cool shit, frisbee's a neat activity, fountain pens are best pens, Latakia for life, coffee and tea keep these gears turning.

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