by Justin Clark
a dilapidated apse—watching,
remaining at the scene of the crime
as a victim would. without warning,
some dreaded majesty.
a chariot trickles to earth
gently. you and i sit together
as radiance begins to wash darkness
from the corridors of an empty house
until the city bursts like a yolk;
we rejoice in the soft flame
of an orthodoxy meant for you
and i alone, waiting.
Justin Clark (he/him) is a father and poet living in Indiana. He has an Associate of Science in History and an Associate of Arts in Philosophy. His work has been featured in Hobart After Dark, The Tecumseh Review, Southchild Lit, Interstellar, and Zero Readers Review. He can be found on Twitter @PrognatusD.
Emerge Literary Journal 