EVERY MORNING SINCE / KYLE KACZMARICK

 

The stream cut through wooded hillside
it went down past shades and dancing oak,
the willow with tired arms
and the skewer trunks of the pines.

The land here was old and the mountains
were slow to rise, like wifeless men
every morning since, and at dawn
the light came steady up the valley slopes
and I spent each morning after
watching the sun show its violent coin
come up out of the east,
trace its arc across each day until
dusk when the hawks come out to play in the sky,
riding the rifles of night’s first cold wind
like furies arisen in this great darkening,
heralds to some unnamed and
long awaited desolation perhaps.

I am far enough from the highway
that I do not hear the cars
but I can see them on the road
in the distance, behind that hillock,
the tiny cars easing by to where
the thin stripe of pavement bends
into the valley beyond.

And out west,
the sun dying
below the broken ridges.
Bloodfiltered clouds
like war gauze.

Then a sky of stars beginning,
dense and electric.

The hawks leaving.

Then night,
because it never fails.

 

 

 

I have a BA in film from the University of North Texas.  I live in Houston, where I spend my time between loved ones and my pursuits in writing and music.  I have poems featured/forthcoming in Decanto Magazine, Edison Literary Review, and River Poets Journal.

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