March

by Craig Donofrio

Outside the moon hangs like a scythe.

In the trees, a murder of crows

sheathed in dark and sleek wings.

Police sirens, meaningless.

The sky rolls around like a tongue,

The sheets tangle and twist.

A faint feeling of nothingness, a rattle of pills:

modern idylls of the misbegotten.

The march of great ideas lost before waves of sleep lapping

before the sweep of the sandman’s dust,

leaves, eyelashes of a spring, smoothen back into the earth.

Tomorrow, maybe the sun.