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BRIAN TEARE

The Scab

i
Pacific fog channels through the Golden Gate

cliffside near where gulls steer into sheer hovering
wind shakes a single branch of sticky monkey flower

 

ii
down from the ridge trail ripe with grasses fallen seed follows
my wake far as the barn where coyote leave scat full of fur

 

iii
jeans off I find a scab so black it’s not injury it’s a tick

the way the world holds me here I hold it to flame the red
red-winged blackbirds lend pasture shorn by horses grazing    

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   Contributor’s notes

   The Argument
   The Fire
   The Scab
   The Stairs

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