As we wait for a death

these things are visited upon us:

reordering the nature of ruin,

street names on correspondence

startle with starkest memory,

warning whistle of a train cascades

a travel grievance.

A raven struts the roof shingles,

insistent crow defends his roost

from starlings, darting sparrow.

Ninth month moonlight grips

failing edges of icing pond,

mud-furrowed harvest field.

The bird that charmed at daybreak

disappeared at Evensong.

Sundays are spent asleep

under a fan, beside the phone,

scuffed floor piled with

tossed clothes, church programs.

I’ve not taken a steady step this week.


R.T. Castleberry expects to be amused. He lives in Texas. He's always lived in Texas.