Jordan Soyka
Scrap

Beginning with this dream. A bald expanse of clocks chirping,

lonely as an altar.

The river loud and sharp as whips.

Night’s little engines invent this smear of stars and tall grass,

this gorgeous dread,

where I follow a gaunt heron through the canal.

Her feathers are burning strips of magnesium

and her eyes are whispers in the next room.

Each step is like slipping an egg into boiling water.