wild strawberries among clover; birds come, land, cock heads and feed but this is one more day without bees (I dreaded them as a child, past all points of pain – now I sit, wait, brood over hearing only feathered wings around me) time again
Three years since your last breath, and still I hear echoes of the word gone, of the silence after. entrance/entranced
a suddenness of full moon slipping from behind high clouds; Selene comes fashionably and beautifully late tonight, her silver set aside for gold (and I am too beguiled to play Endymion, feign sleep, draw her down to me) Steve Brisendine is a writer, poet, occasional artist and recovering journalist living and working in Mission, KS. He is the author of two collections from Spartan Press: The Words We Do Not Have (2021, nominated for the 2022 Thorpe Menn Literary Excellence Award) and Salt Holds No Secret But This (2022). He was a finalist for the 2021 Derick Burleson Poetry Prize. His work has appeared in Flint Hills Review, Aji, Modern Haiku, As It Ought To Be and other journals and anthologies.