Late Night, Late March Against a sapphire snowbank, the gleaming eyes of a deer. And glad to see we’ve both survived the winter, I slow and hope it stands its ground or bounds away across the calicoed field. But pulled toward that form by my headlights, the shape changes, sharpens to nothing but a mailbox, branded with some stranger’s name in stickered letters across its flank, reflective decals staring in surprise. Though, in fairness to that box -- poking from the snow like a green-headed crocus, listing on its grey, pressure-treated stem -- its winter was just as long, and when the plow would rumble through the night, sparks leaping out like stars before the weight of its terrible blade, it took the brunt of that grinding scythe, and could not bound away.
Kevin Casey has contributed poems to recent editions of Grasslimb, Frostwriting, Words Dance, decomP, and other publications. He is a graduate of UMass, Amherst and the University of Connecticut, and his new chapbook “The wind considers everything –” was recently published by Flutter Press, and another from Red Dashboard is due out later this year.