Poetry: September Bellingham

Down the hill my city sitsWaves nip at its hairFreeway scratches the bellyMountains hold down its hipLow mist rolled in early,refuses to leave this coveDown into the clouds I walk,floating up into a subdued worldHere exhales are marked,Talk can be seenSun baths buildings in a peach-warm glowas it fights the floating moisturethat crowns my September BellinghamNoon-thirty,visibility stillContinueContinue reading “Poetry: September Bellingham”