FUGUE

BRETT HARRINGTON

Clouds bruise-yellow

in afterglow.

Gossamer bandaged

across the glade.

You stand among

the sere witchgrass,

hear this voice

not as your own,

but as one will say

what you refuse:

once threshed into

being you were

only ever

becoming who

you won't become.

Every word

a seize of nerves,

yet still, you stand

inert beneath

a tracery

of bare oak branches,

vacant eyes wide,

watching motes

of pollen float

down the last

let vein of light.