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Ritornello

by Emma Jones

Where does the light go, that funnel of birds?
Already, now, the dark is assembling
its parts. Its slow motor of shadows rides
the footpaths, frail and grey; dropped by buildings,
picked up by glass; shuttered by sun in boards
and stone; small, and attended by nothing;
eaten and eating, cooling and cold; spread
like a spreading caul of clouds, and gathering.

Clouds, or birds. It says swing low. When the sun
sets, strange, it inches out; a colony
of grown things. Like a page had let its words
fan out. Ink-world, eye-world, cement, blue stone—
The lights of the buildings shelve the city.
Where does the dark go, that funnel of birds?