Backyard - Charles Rafferty
The clouds have ripped a little.
A knee of stars presses down
on my throat. The sky, low
and confused, keeps moving
to conceal the moon. The next town
over, sirens are gathering
to a sustained howl. Here
the horizon is leafless —
a blueprint of trees superimposed
on my wild weather. In another minute
that knee will kneel
on a different neck. I choke
until it drifts like steeple music
back to its many bells.
No comments:
Post a Comment