Lizzy Burnam 🐞

Before the blank 
page, the empty mind
appeared and faded 
away like a wet stone spot. 
The music was always 
implied, the notes 
imprinted on the wind
by fruit and gust 
of bird wing, 
by the distance 
and immediacy 
of a storm cloud 
swallowing the sky. 
No blacker ink 
than the pupil spill 
of your eye, nor youth 
as misleading, mirroring 
a long gone blue 
when the sight goes 
dark. Too much 
waiting poisons the body,
I think: thumbs 
in shambles, wrist 
rotten. Before 
the journal, the footprint:
a comma marked in mud. 
Just take the boot. 
Push the pin past 
the horizon there 
before you, the one
you’ve sung to boredom
in all your looking 
spared of sight. 
More than what 
your hands can hold, 
a road, whether 
you take it or not.