There’s music hurtful and helpful
pouring into my skin. Sounds like
one fine mystery inside another.
Sounds like silence making glass.
To the moon I will jump
with a pot of harvest in my hands.
To the moon I could cry or scream!
I’d just like to know how wishes
are burdensome to each other
and how to catch yard balloons
miles from home. I’ve changed
my mind about trying to escape the subject,
but I still remain silent when the oil
of human suffering inches closer
to my kitchen like the sound
of soaking rains on Tuesday nights.
Cliff Saunders is the author of several poetry chapbooks, including Mapping the Asphalt Meadows (Slipstream Publications) and This Candescent World (Runaway Spoon Press). His poems have appeared recently in I-70 Review, Plainsongs, Stone Poetry Quarterly, Packingtown Review, Book of Matches, and The Flatbush Review.