Unlucky Thirteen(er)


The cul-de-sac’s stopped clocks, howling wolf once too often, 
whined warnings I dreamt through, welcomes you snubbed, pawed at your
4AM footsteps. Grilled windows hatched their weak tartan
schemes over the offering you were eyeing. No rite,
no ceremony: a pyre of piled laundry
stripped with deftness unbecoming while I snored. Black straps
helped practiced hands withdraw their neatly packaged prize, but
such easy sacrilege won what? A case without its
glasses, enambered light escaping leaky shutters,
chaste gelpoints inspiration wouldn’t dare to touch, and
the 10s, 20s, 50s, adrift in foreign currents.
Still——enough to break a dawn, and a trail for this moth
who flutters against the fan that waved on misplaced faith.

With apologies to John Hollander.


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