by Mitchell Evenson
The sky slips from itself
and cradles clean a memory
of swell and flood—bathes
the pavement, now
grey enough
to empathize with
overcast,
—the gutters echoing
the hush and hurry:
song of my past
that surges beyond
the current.
Now sunshined, blue-skied
days are babied into
old age, baptized
by nocturnal rains
(always before
I wake);
and every morning I trample
the dampened ground
to remind myself
what cannot be
washed
out.
Mitchell Evenson is a Theatre Major and English Minor at the University of San Diego. His writing focuses on memory, relationships, and identity. He will be graduating this Spring and hopes to pursue a career in the arts.
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