A death knell rung in light, not sound; pealing from the surface of a rust-stained concrete smokestack in a sky that seemed had never been without them. Flashing red on foggy nights and moonlit ones; on days that always felt like Sunday. But for the most interior of rooms there was no refuge from their painful tempo, slower than the slowest heart could beat without just stopping; a rhythm meant for times of mourning, not the intervals between that are the stuff of elegies to come. But the lights kept at it anyway, sliding on and off in unison, noiseless, unrelenting, maintaining order in the twilit sky; warning planes away from danger for the small price of my sanity.
About the Poet:
Donald Sellitti is retired after a thirty-eight year career in research and teaching at a medical school. He has published extensively in medical journals, and has recently had poems published in Autumn Sky, Better than Starbucks, and Rat’s Ass Review, who nominated his work for a Pushcart Prize.
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