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For Lack of Nightingales

For lack of nightingales in this dug up dirt of an age, the poet looks to modern structures for sublimity like a detective searches clues to unlock a particularly prickly case. The poet turns their eyes to skyscrapers, the way their steel bends to escape the sun; perhaps this could be poetry. The poet looks beside puddled up gutters, aiming their magnifying glass on the spit-worn thrown wrappings and gunk for sonneteering or balladry. Finding nothing, nowhere, the poet almost hangs their head outside the window of a moving micro van but at the last second the white reflection of the evening’s last sun ray off an underwear store catches the poet’s eye in such an angle they feel like the wheels turning and all the post-it notes on the white board coalescing to make sense; meaning, the sublime has finally kissed their dry, skin furling lips.

Poetry by Sameen