by Daniel Findlay

And then sighs. I was in the game at one point,
she says, but I’m lapsed. Murky birds
wing above us, unseen in the cauldron-black night.

In my dreams Albuquerque is still raining on us.
The streets push you along like an assembly line.
A muffled din like love seeps out from locked windows.
Tell me you hear it too, she doesn’t say.
When I’m awake I remember leaving.

There are only two modes of being:
deafening annihilating motion and the other one.
A priest told me once, at least I like to say
that a priest told me once, that you leave sin behind
while in transit. It’s there, waiting at either end, but
the movement is enough to shake it off for a time.
Though this probably isn’t doctrine.

Daniel Findlay is doing just fine, thanks for asking. He lives in Oregon, where he writes poems while his boss isn’t looking. He is on Twitter (@mice_and_beans) and Instagram (@dfindlay579).