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Manny Blacksher

Crepuscule

 

June evening chirps in the breath between

afternoon and old avian night.

New moon swims the city duck pond.  Street lights

burr cicada-like.  Taxies swoop, careen

screeching the gusted lanes – loosed parakeets.

Grubbing hours overtime, a roughneck

woodpecker goes nattering through rickrack

macadam, jacked in.  Above the street

a lineman’s perched.  He cocks a liquid eye

at distant crashes, cries – held not serene

but still as night grows dim.  On paths that lie

along the plum wine pond, the groundsman’s cane

is pronged.  He dips and spears the trash unseen,

stalks on, relentless as the river crane.

 

 

Finding the Cat

 

Cubist calligraph in lampblack, the room’s

a zero plashed abruptly by some master’s

careless hand.  His brush strokes’ pranking whiskers

fray door frames, matte the shadows you presume

are headlights nosing through the bamboo blinds.

Sleepless early morning, you cannot hold

the pillow, and your shoes are empty.  Cold

comfort creeps beneath the bed.  Pay no mind,                         

but dream a thousand cat-faced demons wauling                                  

murder, till your clock’s knocked off the vanity

 – a thunder crash – and wake.  This is falling

on your feet.  Get up.  Remember to keep

the box clean and bowl full.  Hungry,

you eat.  Sleepy, you go back to sleep.

 

 

Manny Blacksher is a teacher, writer, and editor who will soon enroll in Carnegie Mellon's masters program in professional writing. Blacksher grew up in Alabama but has lived and worked in Montreal and Dublin, Ireland. His poems have appeared in many journals including Poetry Ireland Review, Measure, Green Hills Literary Lantern, and Digital Americana.