poems by A.J. Huffman

Dream-Killed Nights


smoke like whispers of a dying

fire, a cross that cannot stretch

the water.  I long to travel

the war-torn tendrils, feel

the breath of a thousand fish

beneath me.  Life has a strange way

of marking, and mocking, our passage.




The Breath Before Ignition


Tangible holds emanate.  Ghosts

of ember’s future ruminate, raise

the possibility of heat in incremental stages.

Tactility surrenders

to ephemeral.  Smoke whispers.  Friction

fills the wind like thunder.  One strike.

The world starts








Even After Death


The skull should have been desiccated, void

of anything even remotely alive,

and yet as a slight breeze rustled the desert floor,

a hint of fur bristled along the brow line.

It was only a second’s flash of defiance,

but I chose to hold it in my mind

as if it were an echo of the million

miles of memories that came before.





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