by David Luntz
Church bells blot memory.
A typhoon glazes the sky.
At the wake—incense,
and walk-through saints.
I brush the dead man’s hand.
“Don’t go,” he whispers.
“Knit your dreams to mine—
my mind’s a forged empire.”
David Luntz. Work in Post Road, X-R-A-Y Lit, and Bruiser. Twitter: @luntz_david