Because it was written again by others: Illinois in January. Rows of frozen black soil through the snow and my feet unsteady across them. I’m drunk; I carry her name on worn wood floors. The doorknobs are cut glass, the doors many layered lead paint. The house in opposition. A slat of lit dust builds itself along until it isn’t anymore. This a month now, without a single freezing trip out to the mailbox. I have disconnected the internet. That’s not quite right though. I shattered the modem some nights ago. And on those same movements of the bright lit dust slat? I can’t voice the special sadnesses that roll me over. I can say I’ve been grateful. Grateful for the cold howl all night. Grateful that I see silos on horizon. Grateful for the godhead, and flames. I was lead to believe this would all be so different when I turned thirty. Instead settles like a seed dropped on brown grass.
Craig Finlay lives in South Bend, Indiana, where he spends most of his time doing library things. He has an MA in English from Western Illinois University and is currently pursuing a creative writing-track MA from Indiana University South Bend, where he is also a full-time faculty member. His poems have appeared in Noble / Gas Qtrly, the Beloit Poetry Journal, After the Pause and The Blue Mountain Review. His poem “Four Winds Field,” in the Spring 2017 issue of Twyckenham Notes, was shortlisted for the Sundress Publications Best of the Net Award.