Galactic tide
Is there a way to say it. Blue tilt
across the cottage room. All my
nights collapse like this. A comet
spills milk in the yard & cries
& cries about it. Blue breeze
rattling the aluminum sculptures.
Gravel in strange heaps. Shifting
and shifted by whom. Why
this was built to last I’ll never
understand. A monument to us,
I guess, how he took my hand &
never returned it. The comet mops,
exits. Cleanliness is godliness,
& space is almost vacant.
Erin L. McCoy’s poetry collection, Wrecks, is forthcoming from Noemi Press. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in the American Poetry Review, Pleiades, Conjunctions, and other publications. Her work has appeared in the Best New Poets anthology twice, and she was a finalist for the Missouri Review’s Miller Audio Prize.
The Mantle 