by BRANDON HYER
She'd learned all there was to know of fault
inside of a moment, a grain of turning.
Of night she knew too much, of salt
unspooled, buried in the flesh.
With a backward glance her yearning,
her body, pillared into white.
Quiet as a half-rhyme's crash,
it felt like burning.
It felt like burning.
Quiet as a half-rhyme's crash
her body pillared. Into white,
with a backward glance, her yearning
unspooled. Buried in the flesh
of night, she knew too much of salt.
Inside of a moment, a grain of turning,
she'd learned all there was to know of fault.
BRANDON HYER has published poems in the Utah literary journal Shades, winning first prize for poetry in 2001, and third prize for poetry in 2000. He lives with his wife outside of Salt Lake City, Utah.