I have a poem in the Ekphrastic Review today, a response to Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks. Shame the WP lines aren’t long enough for the formatting…
You can read all the responses here.
There comes a time, but you have to wait until the hubbub dies, the rolling home
and car doors slamming, radios blaring with final weary laughter, when dark falls.
There’s a time when dark trickles silent except for hollow footsteps and the whoosh
of the espresso machine, brushing our faces with a remembered caress, and we
can imagine the stars. City nights are starless and moonless and each cupful of quiet
has to be dipped from a diminishing stream, a slender trickle where the pigeons sip.
Follow the stray cats to find it, where the kerb bends sharp, always right angles,
into the brief silence that waits for the birds to return with the rumbling dawn.
Café lights glow, turning streets into gullets, swallowing shadows. No moonlight
this, only ersatz, that draws moths with fluttering, papery wings, not hawks,
hawks don’t come here foraging with the pigeons in this delusion. Hawks fly high
and fierce where the night is dark and bottomless, and their sharp, narrow wings are
moon-silvered. Shield your eyes with your hand and look higher than the gully of
darkness, above the rumbling dawn, and you can see them, hanging among the stars.