at the gates

Chip McFlennigan · April 2013

the humming is coming from the distant blue
and the vinyl blacktop's grooves
are getting deeper
don't you realize
the pins aren't needles
and my arm has been sleeping
under you

and god whistles
the happiest sounds in the morning
mists as birds
nest in trees
evergreen
and my envy pours
only when it rains
the cracks in the sidewalks ache

while my mother's back
was broken down the hall
and i could hear sad voices
muffled in a brass section
of telephones

but can be who you are
when i am around
i heard the sirens coming from the outskirts of town

and the stovetops and the toasters
listen to the pots crying wolf
and the televisions console
black kettles in blue
and the birds take their breakfast
waving back to the sea
and i was searching for one answer

for everything
but i have come to realize that there are only replies
and i had come to take you home with me
but what i was left trying to open
was ajar
filled with fireflies
dimming and i can't understand it

but i digress
if i never see you again
remember that i love who you are

i hear the trumpets at the gates
can be beautiful, too