Empty Tables but Crowded Hallways

Chris Murdoch

Again I am slammed within the walls

the weight on waves of moonlight strikes

chords with the gold of my soul

while space pours itself across the splits and

rips and cracks and trenches of my stanza

the familiar adieu of a misprint in conversation

the glint of irony in your switchblade phrase

said in a flood of character

burning with the paper’s patience for

your look to rest on me

as I stand shaken at the knees into deep ground

and lying on awful eye contact,

of a stranger’s glance