At night the wind knocks
the breath out of me, that sudden
sting of ice sparking frost as air
enters and leaves my mouth—a ghost
cast out by priest and cross, a fog
of words I’ll never have the chance
to speak again. Even the stars
shrivel in the black denim
pocket of sky, its faded trim
caught fire in the neon glow
of NO VACANCY motel signs,
laundromats, 24-hour drug store
marquees eclipsing the moon:
that dull silver coin once flipped
overhead—now suspended
midair, hanging onto nothing.
James Moran is a writer and poet who lives in Lillington, NC. He holds an MFA in Creative Writing from North Carolina State University, where he teaches composition. His poetry has appeared in Tahoma Literary Review, Barking Sycamores, and is forthcoming in Cimarron Review.