Five Points, Vol. 18 No. 2

Fall 2017

"Language has its own rules. Readers have their own desires. Poetry is not going to give you a break on any of this." —Kate Daniels

Sample Content

Elizabeth Spires
Pigeon 7 A.M.

Flutter and flurry of wings, the spirit decends
outside a window on the Upper West Side.
Gray note on a gray scale,
the same sound over and over:
ooo ooo ooo ooo
Me here. You there.
Apprehended but unseen.
There, on the other side of the window.
You are the Presence. You are Companionship
without the burden of speaking.
O Great Consoler, I listen in silence
How can I accept your silence?
Forgive you your silence?
I forgive you because the spirit
(which is and is not You) is crying:
ooo ooo ooo ooo
You are so often silent.
But the creature outside this window,
holy or unholy, is not silent. No.
It repeats to whoever will listen:
Not alone. No.
If it left, if You left, what then?
All over the city, the spirit
making the selfsame sound decsends.