by Christopher Salerno


You were a white cocoon shot through with gravel.
I was a knocked-down nest.
We are unassailable only insofar as we produce
in the end something beautiful.
Luna, outside are monsters in parked cars.
Not you. Not when I have just set my preferences
for the twenty-first century.
Ghost messages from the end of our tenure
tell me of more boredom. Here's an idea
someone had in a cemetery,
it's headstones flat and ordered:
to take careful steps, the way ghosts do
when they are starting to assemble.
Whatever lands one here—
I'm not lonely I'm happy
to be among so much denouement.

issue 1, workSean Redmondpoetry