Glass Poetry Press

Volume Six Issue One

Caroline Klocksiem

Why must the blackness of nighttime collect in our mouths?

Bottle on one side of the window screen. the moon's milk in steady streams. Sap in the evening atmosphere. * A dead housefly's eyes point up. Her cold wings down. * The letter that's ripped and rewritten spread out on the table — milk- fall off the edge. * White is the color of whatever we rely on. The roof rotting. The house bathed in artifice, floodlights at 2. * Lipstick covers a mouth in the shape of two wings on skin. Moth wings spread still on the screen wanting out. But there * is nothing for us inside the moon. No- thing for anyone but departure in breath. The brittleness of getting there — traveling fractures through a sky of glass.