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©2018 Barren Magazine. An Alt.Lit Introspective.

Night Parings


by Frances Boyle

Scattered peels of shine
that lie on glassy water, shiver
out of reach. Blue light
filters neighbourhood rooms
as you walk the dog, shadows
lamppost to lamppost.

Napped dark against window
glass—your car, your living
room. The lullaby of curtains.

Some nights are navy blue
and polished tinwork, or butter-
yellow taunt lolling
on the horizon. Unseen
cricket croak and the settling
of birds, the stroll of skunk,
white stripes in the darkness.

Lilac late spring weighting
the air. Night of smoke,
of distant fireworks—crack whistle bang
after the light-traced fountain.

Night with the drape of humid
air, the bite of frost or the brace
of wind. Night sizes itself
to yesterdays, to perhaps.

Header photograph © Elle Danbury.

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