FAILING (AT DIFFERENT INTERVALS)
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.