Exangel

by Marissa Bell Toffoli.

Balsa wood frames
rode the breeze
like unexpected

conversation. The young
pinwheeled after, racing
under the palms.

The sand still warm
on our bare feet
as the sun readied
for its disappearing act.
I was reckoning
how much we have
to give away.

If the beginning is
about learning to catch,
then the end must be
about letting it all fly.

Not every opening up
will be accounted for.
Somewhere is another plane

haunting the shoreline
alongside our shadows, only

they belong to different people.
Those who know
what wings are worth.

How to talk to the evening?
Where you once were

whispers take the air.

by Barry Vitcov. A contortionist writing an extemporaneous poem Shaping herself into words One letter at a time Alone Giving more to the word Than what was intended With flourishes of twists and turns Not unlike a white-faced mime A body morphed into letters Lose their humankind Unable to distinguish fonts, bold and sublime Some […]

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