The shadow of her eyes, a
Volcanic ash, timberwolf grey,
on the ribbed and barren seabed
of a valley before the pyramids.
5,343 feet above the scent of moon
shine and charred balsam, clothed
in a milky ash, the air is radioactively
alive. Like watercress it breaks with
a crisp bite – a blade of galactic time,
bathed and blended in boiled arrowroot.
A lukewarm air on my neck, as I sense
your melting breath. Yet I am no Brahmin.
George Cassidy Payne is a poet from Rochester, NY. His work has been included in such publications as the Hazmat Review, Moria Poetry Journal, Chronogram Journal, Ampersand Literary Review, the Angle at St. John Fisher College, and 3:16 Journal. George’s blogs, essays and letters have appeared in the USA Today, Wall Street Journal, the Atlantic, the Havana Times, the South China Morning Post, the Buffalo News, and more.
See all his poems on Tea House here.
