by Sean Kilpatrick
I spent high school
mocked by a towering
clock on my walk to lunch.
The same set of integers
were somehow dismantled
into more of themselves,
presiding over
every window.
Birds poured
from each configuration
as it was revised,
gears smearing them
to pneumatize another number.
The future winked out
in feathers, but the moment
continued squawking on,
a stuck-gullet sky
serving back the dead
from heaven.
Sean Kilpatrick‘s writing is published in Boston Review, The Quietus, Columbia Poetry Review, Vice, Bomb, LIT, and Fence.
A-minor 