Late September Midnight

Crickets scrape at being
like filing to a point
a point and place in time
to hammer into place…
something. A hinge on which
a universe might swing.
A universe that’s made
of hinges and of swinging.
A gate to anywhere
creaking in the moonlight.
And all coming and going
rubbed and rasped into dust
and nothing, and leaving behind
uncounted swirling motes.

 

About JBMulligan

JBMulligan has had poems and stories in several hundred magazines, including recently, Big Muddy, The Lake, riverbabble, Unlikely Stories, and Gone Lawn, has had two chapbooks published: The Stations of the Cross and THIS WAY TO THE EGRESS, and has appeared in multiple volumes of the anthology, Reflections on a Blue Planet as well as the anthology, Inside/Out: A Gathering Of Poets.
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