The Night

A gymnasium
with crepe paper and leather soles,
an iron box with only singles,
rain without the drop,
a clever dance
where the floor taps our shoes.

I cling to your scapula, your hand,
like clothespins, like darkness,
following the musical step step
deftly dizzy onward. Hold my
lips with your lips. Hold my
umbrella so I can snap my fingers.

 

 

Donald Zirilli: James Tate Prize finalist, Forward Prize nominee, and Now Culture editor, dropped poetry into River Styx and other wetlands. His chapbook is Heavenโ€™s Not For You, Kelsay Books, 2018. Website: http://www.zirealism.com/