by Mark Swanson
| Here, starlings sing for their death (and we give it to them). We stoke our sun to burn bright but clouds hang like rotting linen.There are no bones―nothing that stands up and says “old,” but it’s beginning to look like home: cottonwoods, honey locust, the brassy red light of the west on fire in the eyes of a wintered witch mawing planters root.Horse bellows have left for Harleys and car alarms. Trees and tall buildings prod the red trails of dusk to move west as time hammers the day shut with a rusty iron nail. Walking through the old brick ~~~~~ |
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Causeway Lit 
Mark – you have drawn some very vivid images in this poem. My favourites are:- “clouds hang like rotting linen” / “as time hammers the day shut with a rusty iron nail” / “bricked shut like a boxer’s swollen eye” Excellent.
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