m.r. smith

6 a.m. Friday

Spring, setting super
moon, waxing gibbous,
a day yet, no more
from full,
altocumulus cloud for a hat,
foothill for a cloak.

This was the face of morning,
like a parent’s for a child,
and a portent of the day.
Stilled and flat with the
confidence of ages.

The Last Seven Trees

I can see the top from here
even though I am on my knees panting,
my chest heaving air more thin than I am used to.
Rarified air and blue like nothing else down there.
I count seven trees to the top.
In my youth I might have run for it,
oblivious to sun, stones, hell any obstacle.
Stop here though, and look with me.
Seven more trees to get past and I should
be able to see forever.

Here I Come

I search for my voice by
singing jingles, mumbling
arcana in the shower.

I soften my diction in the
night when I cannot sleep.
What of you? I just parrot

your best work, fit right in,
putting my glass exactly
back in its damp ring.

We all register earthquakes
before we recognize them,
flash the picture of mom

just before the phone rings.
That noise in the street?
It’s me for crying out loud.

M.R. Smith is a poet writing in Boise, Idaho. His work has or will appear in publications such as The Cascadia Review, Camas, The Literary Bohemian, Punchnel’s, The Red River Review, the FutureCycle Press anthology What Poets See, and the Western Press Books anthology Manifest West.

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