The Locust Prophets The wooden planking beneath my feet, waterside.

Chest bare to the night, stand alone song. Trees' faces, silhouetted against 11:39-shaded purple-black. Watch, spirits, prophets, watch. They are nature's impartial grandfathers; long have they stood, sentinel, centurion strong, seeing the generations of hungry hearts pass their parade beneath locustblossom white eyes. Whisper, spirits, watchers, whisper. In the air, chlorine moon, I feel the sun's burn slide off of my shoulder beneath fingertips; mine? Yes, whispers truth. Know, whisper the prophets. I choose the locust truth, swallowing real I choose to awaken in the dead sun morning healed. Know, whisper the watchers: know better. I do. Wish, fingers, wish. Kiss, skin, kiss. Drown, eyes, drown. Know, child, know. I shall never forget your hands.