Alex Streiff

On Top of Central High School in the Middle of the Night

There was a system: this red body was scooped out.
  A woman’s hands opened
  as that strange tatter of light
dropped like a feather.  There was the sewing shut.

Multiply the solo  by a thousand lockers:
 maybe anger still  whorls in the depths of halls,
and shame, but there was so much glow and chatter,
laughter,  plankton.  Years flutter past.

I understand there are, in some restaurants,
  chefs who will prepare a dish—sushi,
bright soufflés—just the way you ask.
 I’ve not met one.

But mark how all the particles keep
 moving in their unseen corridors,

mark a journey built from spines, not this map,
  though the people are always leaving, coming home.

Any glass may hold the sea.  The sun
 seems to rise, solidify a bit, and off the flat rooftop,
stars I could barely see vanish and will not.

Alex Streiff is the fiction editor of The Journal.
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