Poetry by Casey Morris
The shady road unravels north of town.
Its flowered hills exhale. Flocks of grackles
Retrace sunlight in pulses of black down.
Old padlocked barns, unbothered in shadows
Of linden and burnt pine, relive by ghosts
That putter in cobwebbed sties. Long rifles,
Uncleaned and rusted, grieve their Mauser bolts.
A fussy mare in weeds looks round. Idles.
The rolling woods echo with Sunday bells.
What thorny voice among the choir’s psalm,
What longest passion like the angels tell
Lot and his beloved: what was is gone
In twilit vespers whispered down the road,
In summer dark that is lost, that is home.
Casey Morris is a staff writer for Decadent Serpent and Atropos Poetry Magazine, where he’s published reviews, features, and poetry.
