Troy Turner

Poetry is the art of expressing the inexpressible.

I fold my legs over each other.
the air is cold, like disillusionment.
like last night’s dream, quickly vanishing.

 

while the phone on the coffee table
relentlessly buzzes
I lift my knees onto my elbows.

 

the wind displaces the leaves
outside my window.
sunlight turns them
from green into gold.

 

my muscles ache
from years of stretching.

 

I call pain growth.

 

this is healing:
mornings on a yoga mat
friends who are no longer friends.

trains rolled in
overhead, out of sight
like the strings of fate
plucked quietly.

 

in the station’s waiting room
I held a marble between my fingers
an empty stomach
deliberating.

 

minutes were rose petals
curling on the trimmed grass
outside the window
while travelers glanced, but didn’t speak.

 

the clock lurched forward
quivering rafters
within the echo of your heels
a heartbeat.

distant boats were the wrappings
of spring, blowing away
quietly across the pale horizon.

 

we watched from the shore
the seasons change
like the colors of a traffic light.

 

the sky was a highway at rush hour
geese and cranes holding formation
home, a direction they were born with.

 

while the salty ocean rose
between the rocks, under our feet
your phone kept ringing and ringing.

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