Still as paper-weights, their portraits
Freckle columns in a loose shroud of
Black-ink blot. Most gravely smile
With their breath drawn back,
Swallowing cries, wanting something
More than the disquieting narration
Told in the split and spill of serif.
A curious few may find themselves
Lingering above or below the fold,
Shaking off sadness and making
Certain note of the hard particulars:
Age and place and cause. Laying
The paper down, perhaps they’ll
Take in the sun’s slow rising or
Setting, drifting like crumpled gold
Dust from room to room, grateful for
The scent of paperwhites, the sweet
Muscle still throbbing in the chest,
And brackish blood coursing in
Currents towards the outcroppings
Of fingers – age narrowing eyes
And choices among the daily ads.
A resident of Connecticut, John Muro's professional career has been dedicated to environmental stewardship and conservation. In the Lilac Hour, his first volume of poems, was published last fall by Antrim House. John’s poems have been published or are forthcoming in numerous literary journals, including River Heron, Sheepshead, Moria, Writer Shed, Third Wednesday and The French Literary Review.