I see a few scattered lights in the blackness.
I hear a faint train whistle;
It makes me recall past summers.
Strange, thinking about all the nights
that have passed in my life, like trying to
imagine the entire Atlantic Ocean at night.
Far away, a dog barks.
It’s getting late.
I will call someone.
Trish Saunders lives in Seattle. Her poems have been published or are forthcoming In Pacifica Poetry Review, The Rye Whiskey Review, Crossroads Magazine, Silver Birch Press, the American Journal of Poetry.
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