Past Life
Half-Tab Morning Moon
Daddy Looks for Work
In Minor Key
The Next Thing
A wedding on the beach.
The gulls bore witness—
flapping their wings, obeying
the chilly wind, renewing
their vows, one astonished
shriek at a time.
I would swallow it
to see
the half that
darkness swallowed—
to be sure it’s there,
that there
is really
there.
The snowman, naked but
for scarf and hat,
melts. His smile,
a length of rope,
is the last to go.
i.m.
one blackbird
coldly perched
among the
bent strings
of a frozen
willow,
holding
this note
The morning sun kisses
the spine of Rock Springs,
where a man drifts through a parking lot
at night to steal a car,
wondering if he’s different
than you or I. Who hasn’t
taken the long view in the dark,
before the next thing?
I am tired, sleepy, old.
But the book is softly glowing,
and for a quiet moment,
everything seems new.
Mark Jackley lives in Purcellville, VA, a pretty nice place to be if you have to be locked down. His poems have appeared in Fifth Wednesday, Natural Bridge, Talking River, UCity Review, and other journals.
