Brand new poem from my friend Maria Vasquez Boyd in Kansas City’s Present Magazine:

OVAL STORMS IN SEPTEMBER

And still they come.

Where land and sky converge
an original thinker
with eyes the color of olives

search cloud ravaged heavens
for dark stars

only to find a nocturnal ghost
who rolls and tumbles in a small bed.

Wary of 2 fisted heart agreements
yet admires what negative space surrounds

that other blankness
of the unknown takes form

like a watch with broken arms
that point to a significant event
occuring at a precise moment.