A train grinds to a stop at the end of my street.
This filament spans like wireless or radio
but fleshed with aching. An airplane flies parallel
to the horizon, so far away the only clue
it has moved is the ghost it has left in its absence.
I plant seeds in my yard, this too a test of the clock.
Nothing will change for a time, and you will not see
the blooms of yellow and red that will come
with rain in spring. But I hope you are watching
from your side of the city this sunset exploding,
to the west of us both, this chrysanthemum
of rubies and fire that pinpoints our separate homes,
this invisible stitch that draws us together,
even apart, like flowers leaning into the light.
Todd Heldt is a librarian in Chicago. His first collection of poetry, Card Tricks for the Starving, was published by Ghost Road Press. Other things written under various pseudonyms have appeared in print, on the internet, and on movie screens. Since becoming a father his biographical statement has less time to be interesting. His work has appeared recently in 2AM Muse, Anti-, Black Tongue Review, Blast Furnace, Chiron Review, The Ekphrastic Review, The Fear of Monkeys, Gyroscope Review, Modern Poetry Quarterly, Requiem, Rue Scribe, Sundress, and ThreePenny Review.
Illustration by C.B. Auder.
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