Smoke is wet grey ascension in a rain-filled sky, sand eddying up from the ocean floor, heat pouring up from our bodies as we join and part again and again, pungent taste of oaky metal, currents of white air dissipating from a grate in the city streets, the dark sluice of betrayal seen for the first time, dense spray of spore from a puffball mushroom, cloudy blush of constellations, ash’s faint sister, crystalline jet-trail through the blue, chimney-weep, fire-sorrow, tendrils unfolding weightlessly, bitterness rising, petroleum’s black ghost, granules of matter fading into ephemera, regret-scent that clings, soundless, all that’s left.
by Lindsay Knisely

Lindsay Knisely lives with her true love by the sea in Santa Cruz, CA. She is a writer and teacher at UC Santa Cruz who is originally from Virginia by way of Ohio and Oregon.
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