By Paloma Rodney


By Lauren Bunce

Hold me twenty, thirty thousand feet above

the waves, the grooves the steamships cut

While yachts bumbled bubbly,

Barely scarring;


Let me lodge my feet in them,

Climb up your arm with soft caresses

In the openings of you

Now closed,

Erasing,      repeating,

Waiting for the coastline to tell us

We are meant to be here still.