by Devon Neal

‏‏‎ ‎

Before you go to bed each night,

go out into the frost-blurred darkness,

bulbous trashbag in hand, or just to close the gate,

and listen to the far-off voice

of a single neighborhood dog, whose sharp barks

rise up into the clear sky, into the ringed light

of the bright moon, the same place your breath

climbs as you stand in the backyard, the cold

against your ears, your fingers, your sock feet.

Listen, at least for a moment, for the night

to grow sharp edges in the cold,

along the gutters, the wet deck boards,

or in the diamond skin of the frozen grass.

Then go inside, immediately to bed,

and let the knitted, lined palm of your blanket

warm your skin again.

‏‏‎ ‎

© Devon Neal

---

Devon Neal (he/him) is a Kentucky-based poet whose work has appeared in many publications, including HAD, Stanchion, Livina Press, The Storms, and The Bombay Lit Mag, and has been nominated for Best of the Net. He currently lives in Bardstown, KY with his wife and three children.

---

Share the love and wonder by making sure to respect the copyrights! Everything we publish belongs to the authors. You can share their texts via the official link. If you quote them, please credit them. If you wish to republish their work, you can always write to us and we will put you in direct contact with them. Supporting creativity starts with respecting those who create, so we thank you in advance for doing your part!