zafusy

The sky had substance, like something you swim through. Lookeyes in every pocket marked Mollies without a single crossed finger. There were parties on the blocks and the bluemen joined in, almost the past, almost, but no one brought out the trumpets or rode crest in fits of sane. This alone pushed away the roasting: singlets of ice wafting armward—mingled breaths rallying, until the whole night put on a cracked face.

If you pinned back your ears you could hear the uprush and the way live greens turned aware of leaf and vein, blushing. You could pocket the eye and use it for dress, even as it turned and searched. All the grays and flats fell from the guarding and we were rock-happy and were flinging palette into the open mouth of the mountain.

We heard the knell ticking and clapped against it until the half-life of seconds opened the longnight boundary. We quelled droplets into sere until hazelight came in pinks, until hands rose over the fumes we’d forgotten and stroked clearer heads into the quickcalm and we were leveled again, pulling fads of color from a most distant valley grayed into the pinpricks of our weakest imaginings.

Scott Hartwich

View all poems by Scott Hartwich