Brad Murff
Outside my window stands an old white house,
two stories high, shotgun style, black roof and shutters,
perfect symmetry. Lit from within,
looks like a block of clay.
Spiderwebs hang like curtains.
Shadows kneel and flit.
A poet lives there. His children leap
beneath yellow trees. The trees and flowers exhale pollen.
Fence posts lean. The poet’s son
chases the daughter across the lawn.
Tire swing quivers on its chain.
One day a calf was roasted in the side yard.
Bells clanged. Sky turned red.
I started work on a novel,
pilgrims marching through gravel and nails.
The poet and his wife
brushed past me in Ace Hardware.
They were disguised as magicians.
They bent tools with their minds:
hammers, axes, saws,
bolts, tacks and planks so that locals thought they were angels.
That night I walked by the house, language
devouring my mind like a Rottweiler and the front door
screeched. The poet and his family
ran out and cried Poet! Poet!
I shouted Devils! Devils!
They stepped aside. I walked in—
antique furniture, silver carpet. A chandelier
lit the room. My novel bound on a table
where inside Aramaic was scratched
and broken into lines.
I hid it under my shirt.
The poet smiled at me
and I hobbled out the door, a hermit fleeing a plague.
