Matt McBride


          
                 



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All the Broken-Harped Angels

Trains exhale, and we listen to the accordion player on the platform, his music diffusing into wind and piano.  The pin that holds my throat will not be removed today.  There’s a march this morning being matched by the rain. I worry that the souls of clouds leave as rain, congealing into these fingered bodies of worms curling over the bricks.  Please, no more nostalgia; all the sirens have gone hoarse.  Suddenly is sooner than you think.

 




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Paper Boat


A sea of static
and moonlight so thick
it leaves its scurf of chalk
as I sweep with my glass oar.
I feel my shadow
walk back into me.
The stars are merely
grains of salt soldered together.
Is there harbor
for the noise a soul makes?
I am nostalgic without object,
another passenger
for the empty 747s beneath my feet.
I know not
who made the lamb.
I wear my felt wings anyway.

 











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