Mark Leech

Hobgoblin Gate

Glob light fat in the sky late heat's smell sinking root deep Last year's leaves first of night she waits, not buried not forest waits as concrete waits for water's finger to push split it, run white grains down the valley bottom Wound in branches breath a fly foot on her tongue's edge unseen Steps crack round her head walkers muttering the path shadows them up She still still lips tight as bound twigs keep her second life in no longer binding fortune over hope The path's half moon cups her hunches her down onto her name


Too named by kind and place This is her overripe, bird raddled This sun-sink hour walkers slip pause red moon up rooks calling sleep A car talks under trees She bites her solid lips one lit house in her mirror eye Better to leave (for towns' safe alleys warm waste from kitchens) But she's in the leaf pile stubborn as bone eyes out for stars She waits – one night something fire will come through wood and dark press itself in her trunks and branches crack

It rushes hungry out toward the gate


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