by William Doreski
Secretly, I slip the daylight
moon into my pocket. A crowd
has formed. As I approach,
stainless things clatter. A cop
kneels on a neck. A sigh kites
into the trees and deflates.
The cop looks too dispassionate
for this lifetime. The man
on the ground no longer speaks.
The stainless things rain down
with naked blades twittering.
I ease the moon from my pocket
and compare it to the face
of the cop and of the man
he’s stifling. None of these three
expressions can tell me the time.
William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Mist in Their Eyes (2021). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.