Out in the sky, no one sleeps. No one, no one.
—Federico García Lorca
Acres of weeds to our view and every minute
that we haven’t yet been erased.
A birdcage floats over
a scumbled sky. Just another day
bothered by its own matter and sometimes
this is enough
of a glimpse of what’s left.
We’re living in a summer
thrown to an oven. Soon even
the woman painting the blue
of her roof has grease on her fingers.
A man stirs a pot and the town
tips sideways. Who are the innocents?
We evaluate our mortgage
to see what we owe
on the trees. Turn flour
to muffins in the middle of a great
battle we’re having with disappointment.
A sprung center of spit-back hollers
and harrowing to refigure doubt, then a late supper
handed over in crinkly paper. We settle
to gowning in. One of us admits the thin night.
That’s what emptiness has become.
There’s a constant gristle of air.
A stone moon parties the dark.
Around us a perfect landscape of ruins.
First posted by the Kenyon Review.