Poetry

March 15, 2013      

[24] by Randolph Pfaff

Listen to a reading of “[24]” by Randolph Pfaff.

I am afraid of you
speaking to old photographs
instead of me.
Of the morning sun
burning my name
into wet cement
as I sit in a chair,
the window looking
through me all afternoon.

The world outside
is learning a language
I cannot understand.
If the drowning light
and the rising wind
are signs of change,
they don’t know
enough to recognize
it for what it is.

One thing bleeds
to another.
Twilight is fuel
for the dreaming;
sunsets are
rouge for clouds.
The mystery was
how to make every thing
in this possible world.

Randolph_2013About the author:

Randolph Pfaff lives in Boston, where he edits for a magazine called apt and a small press called Aforementioned. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in PANK, The Destroyer, Open Letters Monthly, and Heavy Feather Review, among others.

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