by James Pollock

copyright © 2012 by James Pollock

Its glassy look suggests one hypnotized
from gazing at the house across the street
as if into a mirror: a man half-crazed
with disappointed love. Look how distraught

after the vivid morning he appears
now in the gathering shade of afternoon,
how filled with darkness, how the darkness pours
like flames in silence out of every pane

across the unmowed lawn into the trees.
But when the stifling air grows vague with dusk,
and the sky is overwhelmed with cloudy towers
that blot the stars like battlements of dust,

the boy inside turns on the lights and sings
the sympathy of not inhuman things.