from HUMAN SURFACE
No light but morning the window’s
provision just blue cloak.
Rapture the optical that foliage persisting
stalwart some winter trees where I
tell you tales of human conditions and just blue
dawn fading into a white-blue grey sheet.
My life is not as it aught. Or is it?
You can, you can I think.
Just sit a few moments producing
unguent these spilling sky
drafts some drained colors and just
blighted leaves shaking wet cold oh
no fluttering like birds.
Stream in the reeds through the eyes and a light
step the meadow brings the braid to hair.
Strands in your voice speak over activity rippling
water to understand rain dripping hair in wet
bunches through trees. The human surface
struggles upward through a scattered float.
Shouts beside hair tendrils and the meek
light waiting. The drowning human
between me heard. Aloud a synthesis.
Aloud a larynx calls a stream
pushing orange sun below the reeds.
Paper boats burning water is tongues.
All day I’m close enough to catch
my your in mouthfuls.
Jenny Drai grew up near Chicago but has also lived in Hamburg and Munich before arriving in Oakland, California eight years ago. Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming in Five Fingers Review, 580 Split, Spinning Jenny, Sorry for Snake, Court Green, and Monday Night as well as other journals.