By Charles Wyatt

The darkest hour can be counted,
but in a certain language, one in which
numbers are a single strand growing

like the light from a star hidden
inside stone wedged and crushed beneath,
but why go on? In the dark

it isn’t even necessary to find shelter
because absence is enough and the call
of that creature was not intended for you.

Not a bird, you say, not a bird.
Something outside the dark, lost, too,
wanting in, wanting you.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 12. Nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

Charles Wyatt is the 2010 Winner of the Beloit Poetry Journal’s annual Chad Walsh Poetry Prize.

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