This sound of brick on bone
Was the sound of his disappearing.
Like a branch snapping beneath his foot,
This man not make good or well The meat of his dreams
And found it impossible to turn the wind
with tender care to how it’s meant to be or ought.
My Love: What do you think of When you think of me?
The pique of thunder,
The taste of grass and rainwater, or
The chill that comes when feet rest
on a tile floor bathed in shadows?
Tell me of the mercy of wild beasts.
Or how oyster shells when empty, even if held
Together and loved, still cannot come to pearl.
Kristian Becker is an MS2 who previ- ously studied poetry at Boston Univer- sity and Columbia School of the Arts.
