Midnight Postage


I hid in the bathroom as you slept, unable
to believe your warmth against me
a somber fool fumbling this love
in the Victorian midnight
do you feel the Egyptian
sheets coddling this heartbreak?
it kept us too warm, too comfortable
or you, perhaps you were comfortable
I hid in the bathroom, down the hall
remembering how you smell
remembering how you taste
remembering the whisper of your hair
against my face as you breathed in, exhaled
and dreamt of home, somewhere
far from supine romance and bottles of red
far from the lavender foliage, fingers twisted
as the sheep run by to the farthest field
between us are fifteen steps, hushed
to your bedside table and glass of water
one envelope, a forgotten thumb to your cheek
and you will be on your way when dawn
breaks free, and runs to it’s daily grave



Night Driving

the stars will come out if you look
up
from the wheel
up from the road ahead
your headlights blinding
nothing but the fog
nothing but the truth
of why the two of you drive at night
along the edge of these mountains
flush against the sky
tracers of black on night
and the stars, the stars
what feared and fated end might they show?
and if they come out?
out to live?
out to survive, like always?
they will, and they will reveal the end
in peripheral moments
in passing sights, too far
only disappearing in direct view
your eyes back to the nearer future
instant death
otherwise

she knows I am helpless
and our words soar
because of it


James H Duncan lives in New York and has recently released "Ballast," his third collection of poetry. A graduate of Southern Vermont College, he considers himself a student of the road. Plainsongs, Reed Magazine, The Aurorean, and The Homestead Review, among others, have welcomed his poetry.