I.

That glimmer we make
in the blind slope
scraped from disaster’s
layered muck, ignorant
vitriol, compulsive
information;

that flicker we cup
gently breathe
to catch fire
so that faces, illuminated,
might remember
gestures
and expressions;

such light eludes –
a failed combustion
fades back into
obscurity and morass
biological
soups.

II.

Today, weather tilts
brief swirl from autumn
kicks up lacy winter fringe –
numbers drop to freezing
expose chilly
seductive eaves.

Convalescent wavering
waves flag of withdrawal
from tobacco, alcohol, cold meds;
the abandonment of streets
in a small town
agency windows shuttered
Sorry,
We’re Closed.

The convict bus passes –
females clad
in raincoat yellow
inside school bus yellow
stare at empty sidewalks
intermittent flurries
from elementary windows
glimmer of language
narrowed to a
pinpoint of hours.

Joshua Bridgwater Hamilton is a Louisville, KY native who migrated to Corpus Christi, TX with his family. Between Kentucky and Texas, he has traveled and lived in several places, including Spain, Appalachia, Panamá, Peru, the Philippines, and the Colorado River. He has published a chapbook, Slow Wind, with Finishing Line Press, has a chapbook, Rain Minnows, forthcoming from Gnashing Teeth Publishing, and has poems appearing in Voices de la Luna, Driftwood Press, Tiny Seed Journal, and Windward Review.