Just as the glacial past laid its lore
with an inlet for the wrung lake,
so the dry grain of shore is rubbed
from you to my open mouth in myth.
They offered sand as a witness to


                        the wedding of material and mind
                        where freshwaters, riven to a haven,
                        have a darker history than sewn
                        into them, patches shown in loam
                        and the wish to be something more.


                                                It is older time set on loop in prayer
                                                against the earth in temporal singing,
                                                monody, we tell ourselves when love
                                                is far and muddled under storage
                                                and preoccupations of grandiosity.


                                                                        But here we have the false ocean
                                                                        jockeyed childish by pink & red,
                                                                        redoing with whimsical fleshing
                                                                        that which was once forgotten
                                                                        and forsook in heights of riper day.


                                                                                                It isn’t enough to forget the lie
                                                                                                though it is made from sand,
                                                                                                stolen certainly from sand dunes.
                                                                                                In all peace is the sun, overripe,
                                                                                                falls from the sky into the past.

Ray Osborn is a poet and painter residing in Grand Rapids, MI. Her work focuses on themes such as the analytics of natural landscapes, elegy, and mental illness. Her work may be considered asemic at times. She is interested in the unexpressed interiority of inanimate objects when imbued with anima.

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