Michael San Filippo

The Year Was a Saturday in Spring

The year was a Saturday
​in spring free to sleep in
breeze and birdsong
​
you were the storm
disinterested deadly
that swept into town

suddenly without a name
silencing the birds gathering
the winds raining
shadow your eyes

black clouds folding into
black clouds
me beneath you

searching for shapes now
I see a church now
I see a wolf now

others would set their tables with
candles and matches
seal their homes
in anticipation of the fury building

who else but me lying
in the grass
ready to be struck

who else pleading for you
to fall but all that fell
that day was the night


the ancient flood of shadow
to reclaim this transient
darkness a silent lake absorbing

a single drop of rain
burned clean by the swing of stars
like a fog exhausted
you were gone before

the sun rose resolute
through the blue summer
morning church bells ringing

white as ghosts echoing over
reflections in the puddles
​you never left me

---

Three-Flat 

                                          
The rain fell
hard and I couldn’t
sleep so I dreamt
about the rain.
I dreamt about
the rain in a tree,
the tree that would stretch
to catch your key
amongst the drops,
all the drops,
but I never dropped
your key.
Not when
you dropped
it
to
me.

---

Tuesday Morning

Through the window of the loft
the breeze rolls damp and dark and soft
over your pillow, your picture, your glove still on my chair.

And the cars say “hush”
in their morning rush,
and you could be anywhere.


 


​
--
Michael San Filippo works in non-profit communications in suburban Chicago. His poetry, photography, and short fiction have appeared in Curbside Splendor, In Between Altered States, and Liquid Whale’s Tails. He hopes you’re having a great day.