Nocturne (Poem from Church of Needles)


The red snow

shovel leans

beside the post

office door

where the ice

is inches thick. Inside,

a photo exhibit

beside the mail slots:

nocturnal shots,

blurred wings uplifting, a face

caught in the dark,

bare limbs against the silver

screen of sky,

and a moonlit wall

cleaving the field

like a spine.

The handy man

has inward-looking

eyes. He swabs

the floor with a gushing mop,

dashing the handle

in the bucket

so the water slops over

the rim; one arm

in a fresh white cast

like a package

from the butcher.

He shouts a jarring

litany with every

song that comes

on the radio, especially

the ballads.

This isn’t singing. He knows

it’s the safest

way to scream.



5 thoughts on “Nocturne (Poem from Church of Needles)

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