The nights are long, here.  Nowhere a torch.
JORY MICKELSON
This night doesn’t make more sense than others,
until it does.  How a train is never arriving

until it has passed the half way marker,
travels from departure, then ceases to depart.

Afterward, it will only arrive from.
The distinction invisible to the eye, the way

no particular day is Wednesday—then it is.
This week.  Tuesday’s train.  Before the air stirred

outside the window I had no name for separation.


JORY M. MICKELSON was raised in rural Montana.  His work has appeared in Oranges & Sardines, New Mexico Poetry Review, Assaracus, Knockout Literary Magazine, and A Face to Meet the Faces: An Anthology of Contemporary Persona Poetry (University of Akron Press).    He is the recipient of the 2011 Academy of American Poet’s Prize for the University of Idaho.  He maintains the blog Literary Magpie and is the poetry editor for the literary journal 5x5.  His chapbook Slow Depth was published by New Sins Press in February 2012.