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.
TOM BARLOW is an Ohio writer of poetry, short stories and novels. His work has appeared in journals including Trampoline, Ekphrastic Review, Voicemail Poetry, Hobart, Tenemos, Redivider, The North Dakota Quarterly, The New York Quarterly, The Modern Poetry Quarterly, and many more. See more at tombarlowauthor.com.