Exit Signs Shine Brighter at Night
a new poem
by Alan Gilbert
Yellow lines shield the pedestrians from
the cars, the platforms from the subways,
as the gradual glow of a new day with its
fruit baskets makes the rounds of outpatient
visits. It’s called hope by another name.
It’s still quiet on the porn shoot set. Clear-
cutting eroded the soil past the horizon,
like pounding a bank teller’s glass with
phantom limbs later lost in the machine.
After all that, now it’s time for band
practice? Crap. Computers and humans fall
asleep in the same room, because home
is imagined. A blind taste test compared
microwavable quiche and skiwear.
We hope you enjoy this excerpt.
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