Sunrise Over the Long Island Sound

by | Aug 11, 2020 | Issue Sixteen, Poetry

Last summer I visited my father. He hides his worry better than anyone I know. A stubborn skin that refuses to peel its layers, convey the daunting of it all. The length between home and shoreline. The precious soil sloughed of its greenery, like the skin off of a moccasin. On the North fork, the harbor seals seem to vanish more and more. As the horizon loses its shine and the atmosphere is an iron lung clotting the arteries of the cloud’s anatomy drowning above. The fresh dew once dripping from the conifers / the plum grass once sprawled upon a warren of beach dunes / the lush holler entrenched in the sunken forests / the gulf stream of colorful creatures returning the fruits of summertime — all morphed into fading memories. All we have left is the sunrise

and that too might fade

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