by Jay Giacomazzo
I figured it out this morning. my mind
will serve better as a compass than as a night light.
the rhythm of footsteps on Brooklyn blocks
a butcher happily sharpens his knives
while I dare to fault the ergonomics of destiny.
fists wrapped in gauze, dipped in glue
I know what it means to fight
to claw at these fish-hooked dreams.
silos lined up for miles it seems
your stockpile protected behind clean sheets of metal
waiting for the day the skies close
and you’ll go running to your rations
only to find they have expired.