by Chris Young

The morning we launched his ashes
I remember the crows

burning ground shadows in heat.
I watched them lift,

sky above fig trees
churn and clench into a celtic,

then burst, myth, ink.
When the gray flakes turned to sundust

I heard them hit the gorge and hiss.
But the crows,

they climbed
further from sinking,

further from haunting
and heat.

Chris Young is a creative writing graduate student from Currituck, NC. About “Apogee,” he says “I like the code of the Minimalist style, the choice to keep words honest and true. The subject of this poem couldn’t stand a wrought depiction, so I chiseled away the fat and found the cleanest cut. It’s a process of balancing weights.”

Copyright 2005 by Chris Young. Photo by Leanne E. Smith.