a basement space in the dark of the soul where little specs of dust fall from the wood beams as someone above walks restless, waiting, near panic, not knowing there are those below who listen, who feel this unending agony that nothing will shine a light down through those wooden slats into the depths, into the cistern latitudes where anxiety seethes and grows and one day rises like the scent of wet earth into the world like a specter of blue silent Friday nights come back for vengeance but finding the house empty all this time, the sounds and dust and wood just an illusion all this time, a choking and somber indelicate truth that time means nothing to no one no more
James H. Duncan is the editor of Hobo Camp Review and the author of Beyond the Wounded Horizon, Nights Without Rain, and We Are All Terminal But This Exit Is Mine, among other books of poetry and fiction. He currently resides in upstate New York, and reviews indie bookshops at his blog, The Bookshop Hunter. For more, visit jameshduncan.com.
Image: “Drum Pitcher” by Nicole Monroe