How many pigeons, blackbirds,
phoebes took flight when the eaves
caught fire and fell, the night sky
glowing red? One of the mills
was burning. Heavy air smoked
over the river, strands of
shadow drawn across the stars.
Did the birds peer through rising
pillars of ash? Could they see
flickering lights of untouched homes
below? Would we hear their songs
like sighs against the din of
sirens, or only whispers
of flames, the cold air rushing
to reclaim its place? And how
many nights would pass before
they’d circle back, alighting
among the faded embers
as if they’d simply fallen
through rays of a setting sun?
Minute
For a moment there’s
metaphor
in the collision
of insect and windshield,
moths
and mosquitoes
pressed to the grill
when
I arrive after midnight
where I want to be, held
in
the embrace
of a lamppost’s light—
a
shared irrelevance,
such smallness useless
in
a universe spinning
away from itself,
each
of us careening along
unable to see forest
or
trees for the dark—
but the difference hits me
square,
aware of what’s coming
and the impossibility
of
getting out of its path.
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