Bryana Johnson

The ocean-blue bowl won__ refuse to bruise, won__ hold it back from the gaping earth-wounds.There will still come water, chill wind and happy goosebumps, and in the utmost corners of oaks, leaves laughing.

It is something to have gazed on the constellated white, felt it running from the eyes and the pores: the salt of love. It is something to have whispered wild thank-yous in the only ways we know how.

Friend who has fired the kingfishers and flamed the dragonflies _ they catch your light however they move and beam it out of their eyes.

I too was pinched off from a piece of clay, I too modeled by omnipotence and flankedby things too wonderful for me