David Geitgey Sierralupe CC
Night after night, by three
quarter lanterns of ivy and moon
cracked sidewalk, the mid-city
march to the parking garage
on N Lamar. Careful first to check
for Executive Patrol, then climb.
Enter the crackling skyline, lit
with amphetamine mist
from below, lit until it burns the eyes
like a tungsten wire.
The hum (noun):
Sum of all cricketsong. Late flights
into Austin-Bergstrom. Televisions in high
apartments and the quiet crush
of university radio. A call note
lost inside the metal of a violet crown.
The hum (verb):
To drag your tongue
across the sky until
your hands go numb. To occupy
the clouds over Guadalupe
where the koan of Om
like origami, here
becoming the coo of pigeons
chanting humee hum, brahm hum.
The hum (object):
To send paper airplanes off
by the hundreds
toward the intramural fields,
wreathed now in their sky-
cloak of junk light and laughter.
Your friends are out there,
The hum (infinitive):
The unbearable weight of paper
coming to rest on the Augustine grass.
Michael Young is a founding editor of the journal Rust & Moth. He spends his days in Colorado and his nights sleepwalking the Texas hill country. His poems have been published in Burningword, Daphne Magazine, and District Lit, among others.
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