Troy Jollimore


Something the gods have left behind,
something created to be disowned,
a place of purgation for wearied minds

where thoughts can be cleansed of their sentiment,
hearts wrung roughly out like cheap sponges, a spot
a child might seek, having left behind

the walls and the windows it knows, to wander
and wring its songs free of their soapy sop.
Somewhere a flight of charred starlings might stop

and make landing, to perch like scarecrow-heads,
sun-scorched sentinels bored backwards by flight,
burnt free of the tiresome desire to soar

through celluloid-bright cerulean light.
Somewhere the disaster you make of your life
can be spoken through silence and, if understanding

requires more kindness than your gods can muster,
somewhere an approximation of peace
might settle on you like the grainy white powder

shat out of the back of a groaning crop-duster.