Craig Wisner

Untitled Poem.

The stars light my bread;
to follow the rhythm of things.
To make camp before dark,
to do as the world dictates-
a bed of leaves,
a depression kicked in cool earth
to fit the curve of the hip.
Sit, in the dark
let the eyes adjust.
Sit.
Let the sound of water blend with the sound of wind;
one, separate, and one again.
Even a simple candle
now blinding, unnecessary
to bring my bread and cheese
out of the dark.

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