calendar page
     a tiny November
          in the corner of December
 

Civil War statue
its rear end turned
toward Washington
 

The Devil's Trill

He clutches the handle of my velvet-lined casket as we ride down the escalator. Once in position, he lowers me to the floor, snaps open the silver latches, and lifts me into the light. Placing his chin below my waist and cradling my neck, he plucks, hums, then strokes me with the hair of his bow. We weave and sway together, a marionette and his master. He always leads me in this dance, yet this time it feels as if I am unstrung, floating above the fray on the breath of a sonata, as my open case fills with coins.

train whistle
lost in the subway tunnel
a white moth