John, I hope the Jersey sun
shines on your hands. Here,
clouds stretch into oceans
of clouds, and birds melt into liquid
flight. From the east rain approaches
like a paw, snaring the weekend.
Last night, I spied your gibbous eye.
A crow as dark as my father
dropped from high, blood
blackened by a virus
from a mosquito's dirty needle.
All last week I stayed inside.
I sleep with hands horizontal.
God dresses in your voice, and it buttons
me in dreams.
Janann Dawkins, Michigan, USA