A song is a skipping stone on a bone-still lake, roads deep dropping into the stomach of the found. One hundred times a water kiss — the head tilt familiar naming something for the city sunset hungry. Then the submerge — playing fish-scales down as lonely bubbles and calling bells meet in new and old voices. LJ Ireton, March 2026.
Night-shrugging the bags from my shoulders, the worst part walking is the nearly home but not — when I turn the street corner and stranger, I am stilled by the cascade of electric stars across your garden trees, turning my evening gingerbread and this whole dark December to dotted lights. C. LJ Ireton, 2025
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