Timothy Dodd

Water Sky Fire

where the dew still dribbles,
wishes to flow,
are the cracks feared
and dry night digs in drips
of trapped weight,
safety seared.

She cries
a hard blue,
holding on
with a hung neck,
fog held in her pouch,
rolling through bare limbs.

Burnt bread
the sold shelter
of digesting, something
is walking toward all of them.
Pale throat, the beard reversed.
Leaves have paddled our bones
to the bonfire below.

From this disbelief
the three will meet,
work magic,
without us.

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