Copyright © 2002 Bob Dornberg
Now look at the empty choir loft of the maple
tree, feel the way it suffers
in its yard alone. The wind
lets himself through the gate and enters you.
A few leaves lift up jaundice hands to wave goodbye.
Such a strange thing love is. You are convinced
that night is deathıs pen name.
The sun was a slow motion video loop of a peach
falling from the kitchen table.
The corpse of glowing coals settles under the western hills.
Now hear night swinging his coffin lid down: you
have only so many mornings in this bank.
Every day costs one.
Copyright © 2002
James Nugent just finished his BA in English at the University of Washington.