Sandcastles fall from the smallest winds,
turning order over/through/[and] against itself.
I trundle under the devastation with tools
I have been forbidden to touch.
A new wall breathes against my surface.
Sharpened by its preceded hollow, it leashes
my strategy -- I begin forgetting myself
in the middle of sentences . . .
Still momentum is built. By desistence,
I acquire acreage (mental not physical).
The tally: loss negates gain
as we flounder in [diminishing?] circles
fueled by our own divisible foot
Leading to the Moon . . .
Dial it down to the crocodile's tears.
The butterfly house is abandoned and dripping
with brackish dreams. Three cats whisper
our feathers across the moss. An empty
bench catches them and collapses
from the weight. Of imaginary alliances
is the battle cry from the bushes
no one sees. The bridge
stays silent: collecting unspoken payment
for passage back. To sanity? Surely,
we pledge a toast to total compliance
with each other's wonder at waterfalls
made from dying vines.
A.J. Huffman's poetry, fiction, haiku, and photography have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press.