When the wind moves its rapier sharp voice against the finials of the building’s spires, who can stand the screeching questions? At dawn, the men sit on the shore awaiting light, perhaps a ship whose inner form is light, a ferry borne from the foam of a dead sky. A seven-part song has caromed the walls like a new moon, its dark light adrift on the dreams of young men and boys. What good idea do you have now, John? The compass you lost, has it floated up? Has the sand taken it, like a souvenir, or a letter home?
When going down Devon for most of time and when the license plate of the Chevy in front spells out the most unlikely message, who would believe it? And who would be the source? The blue of the sky was a graceful, swooping thing, a space full of the quiver of arrows. One. To leave is not to come back, except by cosmic telegraph. The scrawled note on ancient chalkboard. The whisp of smoke pre-dawn, and the beach where we, all wet, would greet the sun.
The Elusive Aurora
When even the Geophysical Institute thinks there’s a chance, I glance northward like the cement figures of the facade and consider the possibilities of direction, the exigencies of fog, but for what? The window pane is but mirror, a dance in glass eternal to the sky. Forward. Back. The eyes in my head are the only ones I have. My clothes are coated in dust. The cats cannot learn our language yet. Author Bio Cuban American teacher and poet Jorge Sánchez was born in Hialeah, Florida, and raised in Miami. He earned a BA from Loyola University, an MFA in creative writing from the University of Michigan, and an MA from the University of Chicago Divinity School. Sánchez teaches at Elgin Academy in Elgin, Illinois, and lives in Chicago with his wife and son.