Dawn startles the ice-tight branches.
by klieg, they yield secrets. Modesty
do not look. If we lack it, our blotched
deliver a long scolding.
in the white world, the weight of us
through crust, no pretense at ethereality.
all crashes, thin wands shattering all around
with a sound
like rocks through panes. Chill melt
into our boots as we hove homeward,
ourselves out, no more revelations
to be had.
by Devon Balwit
Editor’s Note: This poem’s imagery is both startling and true.
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