by Walter Bjorkman
your dam with no water behind it is a burst of sand, leaving phrases in an empty river bed. my sun hides in the valley, dawn in another continent. I feel the calf give birth to its mother, a cloud rejoices. square flames shoot from the rooftop, sniping at my scavenger dog’s feet. below the bakery truck smells of corked wine, and wet newspapers on porches. your hand reaches for rusted words, a tugboat creaks, the harbor groans, weary with mold. I lie inside floorboards, waiting to see the foster moon’s child.
Walter Bjorkman is a writer and poet from Brooklyn, NY, now residing in the mountains of eastern Pennsylvania. His poems and short stories have appeared in various issues of Poets & Artists, O&S, Wilderness House Literary Review, Blue Print Review, Metazen, Dark Chaos, OCHO and MiPoesias. His collection of short stories, Elsie’s World, was published in January 2011. He is Associate Editor of THRUSH Poetry Journal.
I am just knocked out by the photo and the poem. I read the poem first, before the photo loaded, and got knocked out right then. So it isn’t the photo knocking me out about the poem, the poem did it on its own and then the photo knocked me out. Then they both did, together.