Soft Currents

Halfway to the halfway point,
she ups and puckers her mouth
at the scrolling pixelated stars.
Nothing like a bath of backwoods night
to rinse away the day’s debris,
the smudges on the soul.

She steals away a moment
to loll among the whispering grass
and dumb drunk flowers
and the moment reclines
across the hours with a hefty sigh.

She takes in the fragrance of that breath,
feels high and mighty as it moves
deliciously through her lungs.
All her mother and father tongues
retreat into the bruised warmth,
but she doesn’t feel abandoned;
on the contrary, soft currents
of liberation electrify her very being.
How sweet it is! not being compelled
to conceptualize or categorize.

With a smile, she rises
lights a cigarette,
and sets herself in motion, a comet
cracking open the dark
with a rapturous burst of blue.

-r. miller

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