right hand pointing

R. T. Castleberry

In this small, blue room—

overheated,

clenched by melancholy,

I sit the night, guarding carnival goods,

blood potions,

the knife thrower’s serrated blades.

Two buskers walk a tune,

words muffled by the wave’s insistence.

A mathematical conceit of

stars burning to earth enriches

water’s lap against pier beams,

a night sailor’s crossing.