Another Man

A hole through the white pines
smolders with dusk.
The old well nearby yawns

empty but for a nest of broken bottles
lining the bottom. Night
conspires with the tree frogs

overhead. A few moths
lift away from the boughs
and reveal themselves to the air.

The world tenses, almost twitches
with anticipation. What comes next—
shrill bat or wailing owl—

is what comes next. My standing
here will not change a thing.
Somewhere, far away from me,

another man waits for sunrise.

Kip Knott | Mudlark No. 26
Contents | Waking in a Strange House