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There are Spirits Walking
the Rocks of Lake Superior

Matthew Miller

The sun, again,

believes in resurrection,

a gritty everglow

on the letters I carve

in the sand. Your name

will be here tomorrow,

stuck like a raisin in our throats,

buried like a stone bench

under birch leaves,

dry husks of sunflower seeds.

The horripilation in that vacant shell,

the taste of salt, of pickled herring. There’s silence

in shade. We call it ghost. We imagine

the moon, shimmering like a spirit

on the lake. Never truly

going away. All the ripples,

the light that rises again,

reflections of the sun.

About the Author

Matthew Miller teaches social studies, swings tennis rackets, and writes poetry–all hoping to create home. He and his wife live beside a dilapidating orchard in Indiana, where he tries to shape dead trees into playhouses for his four boys. His poetry has been featured in Whale Road Review, River Mouth Review, EcoTheo Review, and Ekstasis Magazine.

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