Editor's Pick Feature Poetry

Six American Sentences

Thin trees rise from the thick texture 

of the saw palmettos’ sharp green leaves.

Now I’m writing American sentences just off Grayton Beach.

 

Tree-wood morphed into the shape of a lizard 

on the soft pine needles.

My mother was born in fifty-one, next year she’d be seventy-two.

 

I sometimes wake without dreams, uncertain if I was asleep or not.

Drapes drawn, dark room, wind pinching the sky 

into a sliver of the moon.

 

Mark Robinson
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