The wildflowers run their purple flags.
Fields are castaways.
The crescent moon is unattached again.
No stardust. No clouds.

You think you’ll keep the memories of lovers
inside your pocket for easy travels,
but apparitions run
like mice across the snow.

You hear a woman’s voice on the radio.
You reach. The airwaves have her gone
to another’s ear a universe away.
The voice never called your name.

Coyotes howl because the silence is impossible.
The sparrows know a coyote’s song
is a simple elegy to an empty sky
and the tonality of wings.



About the Poet:
Aden Thomas grew up in central Wyoming. His work has been featured in The Kentucky Review, The Inflectionist Review, and Absinthe Poetry Review. He lives north of Denver.


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