What You Can’t Call Home 

By Daniel Lurie

 

​Moon draped like a barn
owl’s hangnail, the gray feed
bucket of a swollen night.
Creatures stir, antler and claw,
peeling at the corners of silence.
They slice open the belly
of dusk, spilling an eye
of darkness. In my hometown,
five black payphones line
the boarded-up bus stop.
The cables running from
each receiver severed
like umbilical cords.

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