her custom blowtorch spyglass on each imperfect stitch
my years of ego now idiot jelly
mind shrunk to a motherless pink baby
crawling like roadkill all the way home.
"Look at the moon!" he said. "Violent."
I looked. It was not even red
but white and usual.
"The sky has doom," he said.
But there were stars. It was not black,
but night-blue and tepid.
"What hands are closing in, where?"
I asked. But the door was flung open.
Outside, still and cool.
Before I finished the question
he had bolted out.
BILL NICHOLAS has been writing poetry since 1987, and was published in The Ledge, a New York City poetry magazine, in 1990. He has also been a featured reader at The Back Fence, The Knitting Factory, and St. Mark's Poetry Project, all also based in Manhattan. The Court Tavern and Maxwell's, both in New Jersey, have also featured my poetry. To make a living, he works as a social worker.