By Daniel Edward Moore

but that doesn’t make me the 
pastoral police. At least, not over 
the acres of sky known for their 
fluffy feel-good frenzy. According 
to the ocean’s cold crashing hymns 
in the church of drown, no don’t, 
there’s little time left for the skin 
to burn like incense in the temple 
of bones. Since we refused to be 
censored or screened there were far
worse things than the splitting of cells. 
Like the mirror of the sea without 
You in it, O, unrecognizable me.

Daniel Edward Moore lives in Washington on Whidbey Island. His work is forthcoming in The Meadow, The Chiron Review, Delta Poetry Review, Drunk Monkeys, Sandy River Review, Xavier Review, and Third Street Review. His book, “Waxing the Dents,“ is from Brick Road Poetry Press.