Poem by Carolyn Srygley-Moore
Photo by John Vick

Miracles of the Evening News

The historian was arrested:
peers from the prison window         upon a floodlight
spiraling over the bloodhound grounds.
In small gunpowder outbursts
we measure our time
watching someone come up the back walk with a bundle
of rage.
The historian focused upon presidents
like a boy lost        walking home alone for the first time
counting out sidewalk panes by rote.
What does it feel like to be suffocated?
It must feel like a game at first
it must feel like play.
A few weeks ago       the shuttle took flight
a flare of blue & orange          like a great tiger lily
advancing against the night.
Neruda was an old lover         I tell a friend:
we slept together for years
in the print of tiger paws. 

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