by Phoebe Anthus
Tired ankles creak from the weight of the week
where we have toiled in an Eden gone mad with grief.
And now we sit on the rim of the night,
stretched bleak as the highway roads,
and we rock to the rhythmic call
of a train as it collides
with the summer rain falling in tiny drops,
warm as a mother’s milk,
over the lonely world.
Here we sit, invaded by a silence
louder than the iron wheel’s grinding edge,
leaving in its wake a cloud of digital dust
that rises slowly, blotting out our stars.
Phoebe Anthus is a stubborn artist with her head not so far into the clouds that she can not notice the solid, sensible things as well.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy