October 22, 2017


by Mike Saye


The foglights grinding across the livingroom ceiling,
down the wall, into the dead air over the front door,

say you’re home.
Just now, from the back porch
I caught glimpses of the church light winking,

oblique as the Pleiades, through a struggle of kudzu
that’s slowly prising down the chainlink fence.

Here, take this watch.
Remember, four times a day, when one hand points to you,
the other will eventually point to me.


Yesterday, I watched our neighbor
stand at her bedroom window

in a bra and blue jeans. She must have been staring
at fog rings coming up out of the field, and I thought

about dying. I know how that sounds.
But, I wondered what it would be like

to turn into something else. A pane of glass maybe.
One of the long panes wedged between the fine oak stiles

that run down the length of the neighbor’s French window,
a vague stand-in for a threshold. No one’s

teacher. No one’s fire-break. A minor barrier
against minor breezes, a place to bank the fog,

a place where ice clusters, nearly harmless,
in delicate filigrees of anti-fern.



Mike Saye is a Ph.D student at Georgia State University. His work has been published in Rattle, Town Creek Poetry, and The Coal Hill Review, among other places.