BY CHARLOTTE BOULAY
The road is too hot to move. I’m stuck in the median,
I slept too fast & then too slow.
Sufi says, I’m not only bones & bones—
who loves the saints in the streets? We don’t need
your love, only your briefest notice sustains us.
Dogs crouch in the ancient of their shade,
tooth-brushers spit into their crevices, piss in the gutters
Bedtime—stars like mustard seeds pop
through the smog. There’s a wail & an anguish of horns;
everlastingness reaches up & turns out the light—
Charlotte Boulay's poems have appeared in Slate, Boston Review, Crazyhorse, FIELD, The Massachusetts Review, and other journals. She teaches writing at The College of New Jersey.