Chris Dombrowski

Fragments with Dusk in Them

We were taught to count kestrels on wires

like coins in our pockets.  Whole years


we recalled by color: that torch-year,

tanager, fox, sandstone, sage.  Droughts


revealed the river’s former ways, oars wedged

between boulders, a derailed boxcar,


conductor’s leather cap.  A recluse fell in love

with certain shadows spilled across


her cellar floor, and among the east’s first stars

were the occasional words jeweling-up at dusk


with junkyards, chrome hubcaps—as mirrors

struck small skies across our bodies.



“Fragments with Dusk in Them” originally appeared in Salt Hill (#16, Summer 2004).