Daily Poem: April 23
November
November
Another storm takes aim.
Ghost trail of cuts & scrapes,
cold basketball courts & the moon,
which is a drain clogged
dead with leaves, our home.
The air dries out in winter
& every sound is crisper:
the insistent radio blaring across the alley,
the solemn hurried savage racket of silverware
on the restaurant patio.
They never drink coffee. They’re too shy.
They’re too red-visioned, taking every night
off the ocean. A poem is a hinge.
They say they don’t remember
breaking the glass. & anyway
they’re always breaking
these glasses.
A poem is a hinge.
There go the damn sirens again.