John M. Bellinger

J o h n  M.  B e l l i n g e r

next

Wick

Back there, once left, he drew his breath,

turned his head against the drum and crash

of pain along his jaw. He seemed

to feel where numb had seeped into

his legs; oh, cold, then he felt that cold.

Above his head the trees were cracked

with ice. Above the ice the stars

were cracked with light. There was

a moon that bright, a wick of light,

the terrible moon of alone.