James Duncan


sit behind the final row of homes at the furthest edge of town, the expanse of tall grass swaying pale in the moonlight, lightning bugs galaxial sparkling by the thousands all the way out to the opaque treeline, the distant fringe of Other, ethereal and eternal, a barrier that also beckons somehow, coy in meaning and intention like a watchful dog that may yet bite // dark and impenetrable / monastic // the jagged pine tree teeth of the world open and swallowing all the moonlight it can gather while here the lights of humanity blink out down the line of homes, the kitchen windows yellow and sharp, televisions glowing pale blue, little porch lights, little solar walkways into gardens, out, out, out they go, leaving only the lightning bugs, the moon, a single dog barking in the distance until it too gives way to the orchestral movements of the wind in the distant branches, tall grass crickets, a feeling of dire isolation at the edge of all things, crossroads of civilizations // it will pass, all this—the trees and the homes and the television signals, it will pass // it’s the feeling of this place that will remain after our bones glow white in the moonlight and the wind curls and instruments through stone and rock and calls a name no one will hear // after all else is gone, this will remain