The day as white as snow reversed
The gash in the boy’s chin-flesh reknit
The starling sucks its song back into its head
The fire net door quiets to static nothing
The moth rises from dust toward the turncoat beacon
A spark flies away
Alto notes return to brass the bell replaced in its glass
And the phone calling from the next room cuts out
Like a false alarm the clock windmills counterclockwise
Days grow long
Father walks through the door with his back turned
In every direction the family waits for him to come home.
Nick Visconti
Nick Visconti is a writer living in Brooklyn with an artist and a cat. He plays softball most weekends.
