by Laurinda Lind

Stuck between panes and walls,
here is a prophet poet in a church

so packed I can’t reach what
he says from inside myself

in the rain, though I stay, steal
charity under a strange umbrella.

Geese have been going all fall,
full of themselves up the sky.

Within, white coals seem to hiss
along the floor, heating someone

else’s heart. Even wet, the light
from the real world also is religion

so I suck it in like air till it
saves me under my skin.

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Laurinda Lind, a former journalist, lives in New York’s North Country and teaches English composition classes. Some poetry publications/acceptances have been in Anima, Antithesis, Artemis, Blue Fifth Review, Bombay Gin, Chautauqua, Compose, Comstock Review, The Cortland Review, Ekphrasis, Gone Lawn, Gyroscope, Jet Fuel Review, Josephine Quarterly, Kestrel, Main Street Rag, Mobius, Moonsick, New Rivers Press, Off the Coast, Passager, Paterson Literary Review, The Poeming Pigeon, Soliloquies, Sonic Boom, Triggerfish, Two Thirds North, and Unbroken.