Bob Haynes

ER Waiting Room

The canary sings outside the ER Waiting Room looking for a coal mine. I dream I am the bird taking hold of an air current, twisting and swooping with flapping wings. Weather will press moonlight the way gold bleeds through ruby and amber, the way mornings yellow with mangoes and tangerines – sweet-blooded hemispheres of sunlight’s airy breath. Death may be of two kinds – a dark silence the grave wants back, or moments that scout down a winding road.

1 am – nothing
outside the window except
the moon in midair