Leaving Prague Hotel by Shane Chergosky

I remember the house on the other side

of town with dogs chained near

the door, how you entered first

and scattered the floor with newspaper

for the woman about to birth a fox.

I leaned out the window to watch

bats form a funnel cloud, turn white

as the moon circled their swarm

like a drain. Regret is such a drag

when it’s the reason to board things up

to gut every room

where we existed at the wrong time.

Deadlocked beneath the awning

I imagined a thermometer

broken in the palm of a hand.

A breeze lifted fig leaves bearing yesterday’s rain.

Discrete beads firm as mercury.

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