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P 38-39

high stacking,
arching forms, 

have risen, 
over plains and footprints, 
above the walking figures,
the dust.

And inside their vaulted circular rooms,
watchers are waiting,
in the clean, the white. 
The bright uncontainable, 
in a place where all sounds
            of breaking and gray glass,
are written

past the ephemeral
undulated in sand,

all the faded letters on a forgotten wall somewhere,

did we forget?  
we must have forgotten the empty,
       rested it down for other things
       slivers of gold-dipped something.

the songs are coming now,
sweetly, so faint,
strands of sweet on a harpsichord of night.

P 41

And days and months since            
            the leaving-point,            
            a crack in history’s glass,            
            unremarkably obscured,

time has thickened into
emptied salt flats of forthcomings,
            churning and landing,
taking flight into the black.

The veils thin,
lit-up billowings of impossibility,
gaussian hangings-between
            the spaces, white-lit, cleaved from me.

There is no route backwards
for footsteps or ground-trailings,

for sending letters, paper pieced markings 
            through morning’s weighted gray.

P 47

What of
unfolding places,

air vaults washed in amber,

someone’s morning
in a place here or yesterday.

what of,
where was I,
in a vermilion-paper dress,
under a cerulean sky that day.


All opinions expressed by Elizabeth Waugh are solely her own and do not reflect the opinions of Stay Thirsty Media, Inc.

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