Mark Cunningham  nightlightnight Mel Nichols
 

Stay in the sunlight fifteen minutes and a salt ring crusts my shadow.  Once this was ocean.  Desk clerks change but no one checks in, no one checks out.  I loosen my clenched hands as though uncrumpling paper pulled from a bottle.  Whichever side I look, the message is on the other side.  I remember:  "Years from now / someone will come upon a layer of birds / and not know what he is listening for."  After I finish, I realize I was talking to myself out loud again.

 

 

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