WHAT YOU HEARD
As I drank your mornings starless: A hue the color of breath.
Something like drifting vapor against this curtain
Of birdsongs. Maybe it was the closeness of the horizon
And what I said under it that closed our eyes.
And then it felt quiet at which point there was nowhere to be.
Cloud-like ribbons of shadow blanketed past. Simultaneously
New and ancient like stillness and wind. Understand the muteness
Of rain-washed fingertips at which point I fell in love
With this arterial land. A tree doesn’t know how to survive
Without its grief-sounds spilled into air.
Tyler Michael Jacobs currently resides in central Nebraska where he spends his time bicycling and searching for the perfect beer. He is a graduate of the University of Nebraska at Kearney. He has words in, or forthcoming: The Wax Paper, Funicular Magazine, White Wall Review, Polaris, and The Good Life Review among numerous other journals and magazines.
Twitter: @iamtylerjacobs
Thin Air Magazine 