Whatever it is that
stencils the night wind, I refuse to believe it. Or
should I say that I just doubt it all
very strongly. I mean, look at the bird's
bones picked clean by the other birds! I mean,
Lord, literally. Their forms are ghostly—and
without ghosts! Ok, Ok, Ok, the wind mumbles as it slips through the
delicate skeletons, strum-humming through the
precise ribcages. But I suppose I'm just
talking about my own bones. Either way,
what's important is that something is moving
through something else, and then away, onto
the next thing— (Like this last line,
hollow, as for movement.)
Anthony Opal has recent work in Softblow, Country
Music, and Pank, and new work forthcoming in Taiga,
and InDigest. He lives in Chicago, where he is poetry editor for The
Economy and an MFA candidate at Northwestern University. To read more,
visit www.anthonyopal.com.
