For dead miracles run out, as does youth.
The gold of luck, a flight out of the bricks I miss.
Fall after fall, glass bone remains demanded of me.
No shield sweats my hand. No medals on my lapel.
The gold of luck, a flight out of the bricks I miss.
This winter, the shovel is nowhere on the last deck.
No shield sweats my hand. No medals on my lapel.
There’s ice in my hair, I say to my angel.
This winter, the shovel is nowhere on the last deck.
I pull off the shirt to meet the timeless touches.
There’s ice in my hair, I say to my angel.
My friends, faces inside memory, fade.
I pull off the shirt to meet the timeless touches.
At first shade, then shadows, dew-damp, multitudes,
my friends, faces inside memory, fade.
The moon snores under my rib.
At first shade, then shadows, dew-damp, multitudes.
For dead miracles run out, as does youth.
The moon snores under my rib.
Fall after fall, glass bone remains demanded of me.
Phillip Shabazz is the author of three poetry collections and a novel in verse. His poetry has been included in the anthologies Literary Trails of the North Carolina Piedmont: A Guidebook, and Home Is Where: African-American Poetry from the Carolinas. Some previous publication credits in journals include, Across the Margin, Fine Lines, Galway Review, Hamilton Stone Review, Ham Lit, Impossible Task, ImpSpired, Obsidian, On The Seawall, and Louisville Review.
Image: “Arrêter! Temps de marteau” by Jonathan Silverman
Pine Hills Review 