Blackbird an online journal of literature and the arts Spring 2008 Vol. 7 No. 1



Motel 2

The door won’t lock, my suitcase bolts it. Ugly mustard walls feign Victorian, ornament wearily. Flourishes like dumb haystacks.  This seacoast town shuts down in winter, sells matches and fish through the mail. One rib of it hinges the ship graveyard, vessels harbored in the shallows. Rust in the bilge of me. Even now the walls are damp. Write this a postcard. Our pilgrim hearts shall rescue the griefs of our habits. Let us go, parsing song to anchor to if.  eng of text