Black Alp
Bomb-white morning, thin
silver and the flesh
arriving yellow and too
late. I wonder the last time
someone spoke my name
and meant it, copper
hook in the pink cheek.
I know this silence
by heart, willed stillness, rotten
moon pulling itself through
the cavity of window.
The phone rings & I want
to run, past the opaque chimes
of glass and stale air
but I stay, always stay in
the shadow of the mountain,
black alp rising in the smallness
of this one room.
JOHN PRING is a poet and author based in the UK. He has work published or upcoming in POETICS, Santa Clara Review, The Passionfruit Review, Meniscus, The Talon Review, MONO, Novus Literary, Oroboro, and others.