you lock doors and
lick the shadows
from their feet
mourning wreath still
clasped to your neck
as you brew your coffee
& weep for no reason
despair invisible
until it empties
the animal from you
like a church bleeds
its congregation
upon the street
there is a coin
pressed between
your thumb and palm
that stays cold
no matter what
as a boy you fell
deeply in love
with flooded roads
and pictures
of empty houses
now winter leaps
from your muddy skull
onto the chessboard
where you’ve replaced
every piece with yourself
& passed out knives
a cold flame eats
through the walls
as a window opens
you notice a beginning
& we suppose now
a possible end.
Published 7th of December 2022
About Jordan Ranft
Jordan Ranft lives in NYC with his partner and small dog. He writes poetry and music criticism. He has been previously published in Rust + Moth, Bodega, and Midway.