Rhea Seren Phillips
A ripple displaces her face from Heaven,
thicket of plastic ferments with a leaven decay of beetles...
as black shadows twitch thread across her lips in a blanket stitch.
Last month breath bubbled a cautious seven
as blues glared up at him through a distant Heaven;
the soul frustrates patience for bodily replevin,
ensnared in weeds hides her uncured flitch.
A ripple displaces her face from Heaven.
Shrapnel of abandoned bottles gouges eleven wounds yet to be stitched;
the beetles must be forgiven.
They've misjudged the day in a haste to unhitch their gear
but it won't be long till idle fingers twitch...
and play forget-me-not.
Tomorrow: still seven.
A ripple displaces her face from Heaven.