Stephen Jackson

BENEATH THE BARE CEMETERY BIRCH,
I DANCE ALONE

twisting into the white waves of static listening
to the chill of abandoned buildings weighing in

on eternity, crumbling, bone white breath of an
angel bound in marble, head of a porcelain doll

veined, end to end, extended lightyears into the 
repetitive tick of nothing, it is what we wait for

that makes us hungry, and doubtful, washed up
in wave’s foam or moon’s gloom, those beliefs

as abundant as the bleached grains of sand, fall
through the waste of an hourglass, nothing will

raise the wings or close the eyes, except the tilt 
of light, a sun break in winter, upon your grave

Stephen Jackson [he/him] lives and writes in the Pacific Northwest. His poems have most recently appeared or are forthcoming in The American Journal of Poetry, Chronotope, Grey Sparrow Journal, International Human Rights Art Festival Publishes, Impossible Archetype, and pacificREVIEW. Please follow him at https://twitter.com/fortyoddcrows.