Ben Myers

The seaside rock she sits on shines a blaze   of purple shell and matte-glazed films of moss.She perches there, bent knees to chest, to gaze   the gray and frosty feathered sea across.There, balanced on the edge of both the sea   and sixteen, she can take some stock and . . . . Continue Reading »

Be silent. Hush. Take up the sound of oozelike oil from olives that the presses bruise.Or be the sound of fresh baked loaves, the soundof seeds beneath the stony, sun-packed ground.I’ll be the noise of wheat beneath the stone,or, caught jammed in the leopard’s throat, a bonerattling jagged, . . . . Continue Reading »