Where Are You Tonight?

by CHAD TEMPLES

Grounds of day. Clouds like crushed napkins, the stream of Manzanita autoplaying into endless June Tabor, her voice like warm milk pressed through ancient telephone wires, like these sketchy ones strung through our oaks, purpleblack staff hatched just now across the room, my calf, your thigh, her cuppable face fine as a moth (the eclosion happening right before us) as you search for the lamp switch like a porch key, the old train comes high-balling by again, and her like a swing in the rain, wings stored in imaginal discs— she leaps from the light and into it. A house can sing.

CHAD TEMPLES lives and works in North Carolina. His poems have recently appeared in Meridian, Barrow Street, and Best New Poets 2013.