by Joe Ducato
My crime comes back when the world is still; when she’s lying next to me, quiet as snow; when darkness pounds my brain; when my hands feel numb, sleep won’t come and the mouse inside my wall curses its blindness.
A train is rolling somewhere. It stretches to the end of the Earth then rises and circles the moon endlessly.
Behind the drone of steel wheels I hear a moan; a howl really.
A wounded animal? Anger? Insanity?
When I close my eyes, I still see. That’s my sentence. My hands tremble. I pray.
Lives in Utica, New York. Has had work published in Change Seven, The Avalon Literary Review, Lost Lake Folk Opera among others.