An Age Pulled Apart Poem by A.Z. McCoy

I've withered a thousand
nights only caught
in a torrent that wished
fire would near this valley.

How the Silver Maples
look, their leaves in the storm
of a silent season crept upon us.
My misgivings and treacherous foreboding, your

Cliffs and sculpted dialects.
It wasn't fall that brought death,
but spring and those first moments
I saw mirrored between sky and placid lake.

Your touch
cool, a lava rock long forgotten.
Your crash didn't bind me easy.
It was snow, silk and falling

from outside a window
that melted days in the sun,
a crystalline abacus dropping countless
numbers on the outside of pane.

I thought a miracle before
I drove all night
Peddling the points A and B
Of strangers

And laughed with their
various weathers through
a periwinkle dawn hugging the city skyline
and my nightcap in the diner's A.M.

when the men read their papers
And sign all I am not
In the crosswords
across your dreams
these fires never encroach upon.