There is light faintly pressing
against the rim rubbing soft
past oak and bronze
All the silences have hecklers
all the gentle landings shake
like trains on gravel tracks
All the distances are black ants
on gray clouds slipping by fingers
The gray is a blue child’s breath
The gray is a stubbled man’s beard
It moves in flickers from
left to right, from left to right
a slow finger and then snap
It’s a multi-story parking garage
vacant line after line waiting
for passengers, waiting for solids
to absorb the aching sounds
First Published in Drunk Monkeys.
Sarah Thursday 