Tom Barlow

The month of April continues to swallow night, but

some dark still elbows in and I am relieved, much more


akin these days to the nightjar who finds little

in the sunlight to recommend it. Deep in dreams,


I am less the lonely man seated on the lip of a

green park bench, cane trapped between his legs,


mourning she who believed there is no life without fire.

I remember her glowing in the fog here by this pond


while we drank our coffee, huddled against October.

Now I watch the flat light of dawn turning the woods


into shadow figures, reaching out as though to beg me

for help before the sun comes out to murder them too.