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Two poems by Adam Zaftig
October, Midnight
Cold tonight.
Whenever wind leans on the walnut tree,
it brushes a few nut loose.
The strikes are muffled, but near,
like gunshots underground.
Every spring morning luna moths
sheltered there, walking the undersides
of branches, clever swatches of silk
the color of green fog,
as if spun from the leaves
and morning air.
Now, in bed,
halfway into the dream,
I pik one up, let it crawl
over the back of my hand, feet tickling,
wings soft as the inside of an eyelid.
Evening
The man who has not spoken
stalls on the edge of the bed.
Evening thickens in the window.
Drifting, he marks children's
goodnight yells unmooring the park
to float toward morning,
and feels years ago the pull
and slide of a swing-seat holding him,
sky courted over sunlit grass.
Tree branches outside
dissolve into
time's black shipwreck.
He has night to unravel.
After an hour, he stands,
clicks on the lamp.
