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.