Kentish Gales in May

By Ronja Vieth

On nights

like these, your ghost

does linger. In every


corner the wind blows

in to sweep you out

without success.


My eyes follow the air

as it storms across

my table, sucks


up paper, dust but leaves

the misty memories of death

behind the nook


right by my desk. Indelible

like the spot of sick,

the imprint of


your body wrenching

by the minute

over days, seven


weeks, actually, long,

a long time, too short

a year, remains.


Published on April 17th, 2023





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