Every Night We Talk About The Same Thing
R
the lines of miscommunication.
ragged fibers of daylight, fraying.
some nights you simply can’t imagine.
anything so disappointing as a cul-de-sac.
even obvious endings occur suddenly.
memories wring their hands.
take a deep breath and then.
blow everything out of proportion.
let silence linger and it will.
we have so many names for distance.
Afternoon, June
chasing Rappahannock.
anything to shed her skin.
below, a rush imitating death.
clouds of silt blossom and pass.
impossible to sleep without.
always, air rushes in.
stones throw their voices.
and everything is leaving.
the sun on the backs of glacial rocks.
and sirens in the distance.
R
The Coast
here, shrouded in pine. days go
into hiding. obscure cafés in North Beach.
muddied glass, and mandolins. every morning,
the trail of pine. and the rise with the thousand steps.
the lean candle in the vast cathedral, leaving nothing.
and in the evening, only silence.
below, in the distance—
white sails.
light tracks at the edge of the world.
R
R
R
Gaetan Sgro is a homesick poet drawn to landscapes and negative space. When he’s not writing, he practices medicine in Pittsburgh, where he lives with his wife and daughter. His poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in APIARY Magazine and The Healing Muse.
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