other nights I’ve heard it
just outside the window
fluttering in the dark, waiting
now I’m not convinced
the heart fails the spirit
sputters
all voices silent then choral music
on the radio quiet at first
but building to an awful
sweetness
the night bursts open
and there’s time now
and everything hurts again, glad
to be spoken or mumbled
screamed or scribbled or
sung
a low voice quavers in the blackness
and shadowed wings unfold
like roses or a trumpet’s golden
tremolo
–Michael Randall
Fisher Body Plant 21, from the book Ruins of Detroit, photograph by Yves Marchand and Romain Meffre
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Poetry