by Sara Fitzpatrick Comito
How extraordinary is one o’clock, an hour running
away from itself and meridian, its dark twin
across the world. The way I know to run away
from time: drive until the birds are different until
the sky is big enough to call it out here until dervishes
awake in a new dust a color of afternoon
we never thought of
It’s true we are people of a new century, to be counted
in cicada broods as our one o’clock obliterates itself
with a gun made of climate. I think about what statues
might sidle in an eternal surf as I lose your hand
in the waves
The truck bed is still lined with blankets,
an outpost nest for migratory birds soaring on thermals
even as we lose our magnetic sense, as we lose what
we don’t even know, that on the wing can only
last so long
Sara Fitzpatrick Comito is author of Bury Me in the Sky (Nixes Mate) and a poetry editor for Bending Genres. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in places like The Tampa Review, XRAY, and Ran Off With the Star Bassoon. On Twitter she is @Comito_writes
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