Natalie Marino

After midnight a parade of stars

is a silent song,

a performance

for swallows basking in petrichor.

The wind is a conductor

turning tender shadows into a circus

of elephants.

How they mirror my relevance.

How they armor me against

the drums of war,

against the vacant pews in the sky.

After midnight the moon is a fulcrum

against blue.

The night needle is sweet with heroin.

I am alive with rhyme.