[76 words]
Trucks
Sometimes I think I too will die or merely come apart in mists,
only to curl and re-cohere, as banks of automotive smog, which cloven
on the weary road by trucks, slowly converge again and regain union.
Shrike
They shuffle near, eyes wide as eggs, lips trembling to tell me things,
and speak to me as palette knife in thrall to beauty speaks of life
to empty canvas, or commune with me as shrike communes with thorntree.
Matthew Chamberlin lives in Virginia, where he also writes. His work can be found in Typehouse Literary Magazine, Jersey Devil Press, Apex Magazine, Phantom Drift, A-Minor, Gone Lawn, Outlook Springs, and other places. He has been nominated for a Pushcart prize.
