Sparrows line the curve of the lamppost, a river
of cars below. They all face the same direction
fly the same way home.

I sit in this lighted window, in a house in a line
of lit houses, the curve of the road and the sway
of the branches, bend like my body, my body

when it is with yours. I watch the headlights
of a car slide by. Watch the night settle
back in. I turn off the light, let my eyes adjust

evening has its shadows, darkness has its grace,
like your hand, it slips between my clothes and
skin, like your voice, even when silent, stirs me.

Julia Klatt Singer writes short stories and poems, works as a visiting writer to the school through COMPAS, and is the poet in residence at Grace Neighborhood Nursery School. Her stories and poems have appeared in over four dozen journals and magazines, including; the St. Paul Almanac, The Opposite of Cold, and Poetry East. She is co-author of Twelve Branches: Stories from St. Paul, Coffee House Press. She has four poems commissioned through the American Composers Forum, which were set to music by composer Tim Takach and performed by the Minnesota Boy Choir. Ms. Singer lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. (julia@writeworks.net)

Boxcar Poetry Review - ISSN 1931-1761