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CAMERON HINDRUM

two poems


At 3 am

Shapeless silver-shod moonlight splashes
the polished floorboards: where I like to stand
with you

at 3 am

while your breathing follows an arc
back to sleep
in my arms

While I wait
for an arrival of steady rhythm:
rise and fall, rise and fall

and the soft weight of sleep
to hold your weight against me.

The curtain is half-open against the quiet world
where everyone is asleep in their own silence

Except you
and me

But I can wait

I’ve got all night

And no where else to be.

 
 

At Storys Creek

Except for the ghosts of houses, an abandoned town
            has no memory.

The footprints of man and building dissolve
            into gathering ground.

An abandoned river with banks of rust
            carries poison-weighted water

away from the rain off the distant bluff.

Rain is merciful, gentle here, no weeping
            for open scars or lost fortunes.

The pillagers are gone, having reaped
            what they could, leaving us to sow

while soft rain seeps into wounded earth
            through piled waste, and taints itself.

Below the scars and wounds and waste
            still waters in a forgotten river

watch the lazy sky.