Contributor: Jim Zola

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like birds touching
the tips of branches

in the orchard I hear them
a symphony of bones
I see trees in my hands
the cold

tempts me
when my eyes close

nighthawks turn
black

over the sweetgum
on this side

bugbane blooms out
I cross the river

slip slide
the mud

grasp tangleweed
patience

is the utensil I lack
I call across black water

and hear
my voice

there’s a door
in the river's wagging tongue
a porch
my love climbs

on every step
she adjusts her skirt


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Jim Zola is a poet and photographer living in North Carolina. He currently works as a children's librarian. He has done lots of other stuff too.