Chorus
       

Not that I think that we should linger
while whole fields of love letters
spoil, or the crows strap on their armor
of black feathers, or poignancy
commits suicide in its room,
but I'm ready to dedicate myself
to the white noise
of skid marks,
the stain scrubbed out of the blouse.
A letter from the alphabet
has turned up missing
and the poets are conducting
a word-to-word search.
The ink makes its bird call
at dawn
over the long river of the page;
the ghosts of chalk
walk the All Hallow's Eve
of the blackboard
in the empty classroom.

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Copyright © 2016 John E. Glowney All rights reserved
from Iron Horse Literary Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission