found between the couch cushions with some lint, and 36 cents


this poem is a long
lost song on tip of tongue,
a memory rising
as mist or smoke.
a broken bottle scattered,
not yet smoothed to sea glass.
the jagged syllables of a name
that once mattered. a smattering
of bram

a way
to forget the scars,
remember the sky.



It’s April, and we’re writin’ a poem a day over at Poetic Asides. Come play. 


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