Edited by BLAS FALCONER | BARRY KITTERMAN | AMY WRIGHT
I lay on my back for awhile dozing in the grass.
There was a lamppost on my heart casting dumb light.
I was left to chance. I made much of what I felt
and drank coffee standing up as a church bell
chimed the hour. I could tell you those broken graves
looked like teeth, that the burial records were lost,
burned in a fire way back. But was I lonely,
the same green clapboard house shut tight,
the same Schwinn bike turned over all winter?
It was the same story every day for a week straight.
I watched the light jump from stone to stone,
a rectangular flash of intense light, then nothing.
Then I wiped every sandstone with my hand.
I knelt in a shade of shades without a name.