She works her fingers into an old stump,
down to the soft splinters, the harmless pricks
that goad no more, that turn to pulp beneath
She runs her fingers over
a stone, dwells on its round perfection, long
in birth and long in death, a moment etched
on a compendium of etchings.
her fingers through a fire’s corpse, ashes
bending to her figurations, lines
that speak her whim, furrows in gray that shade
She does not own these dreams. They cackle
across her synapses as she, echo
of their cacchination, rises, leaves—
a flash of white and black caught hazily
through branches flush with needles. Thick, the air.
Breathe in. Again, more deeply. Smells like rain.
– Aaron Novick
About the author of this poem
Aaron Novick is an assistant professor of philosophy at Purdue University. His poetry has appeared in Notre Dame Review, The American Journal of Poetry, Dunes Review, and elsewhere. He tweets as @AmneMachin