April Aubade

When you finally
sleep with the
window open in
a century old

house, the itch
of April enters,
a highway breathes
through, trains woo

darkly westward. Come
morning, wood pecker
drills a hole
into your waking

mind. A pin
of light shines.
Air sucks your
closed door against

its frame, trying
to make a
path through you.
Wood knocks wood.

Your metal mechanism
clicks in its
lock, hinges almost
creak. Everything begs

a thin opening.


3 Responses to “April Aubade”

  1. Art Goodtimes says:

    a dazzling poem from fort morgan’s poet laureate (if not named, in reality)

  2. Nun says:

    Oh, yes, I agree with Art most heartily.

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