By Dominick Takis

The poem was like a silhouette that waits for form, a subtle weight in white sands, it baits the creator to express shape, to conform to something beyond the illusion of escape. What is is what will change.

A beach, a set of words, being released to the storm surge. There was no scale to measure the drawn drapes of a blue room receding only to resume where there is no longer land, just a moving wall and a disappearing man dipped in ink crossed out in dreams, a rapid eye, a blinking screen enclosing all thought in static explosions of surf.

Into the drink, the before birth, all liquid comprehension.

The gesturing wind was an extension of limbs, trees and inaccessible forests, mangrove, black river cypress.

All that is concealed eventually sees light.

All that is consumed within a vast appetite, the regurgitated words, the message often missed, the pools beneath falls hold the tears of the mist, like a lament for all the passing moments. Clouds draped shadow over valley walls, the slow crawl and spirit revealed in shifting hue, in subtle song, how it quickly withdrew but remains long after the form is gone.

Dominick Takis was born in Salem, Massachusetts, and educated in Boston. He’s a writer and consummate wanderer.

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