Four poems by B.J. Wilson


the mockingbird calls on

summer moons too

its white throat’s perfume dusting privet blossoms

under the nightshade

as if glazed in a lamination

of snow

Southern nights still cool and recovering

from wisteria:

vines thick as the sweetness of its lavender

precise as the spider

within the lemony petals of each magnolia

and here comes


with the most rowdy of night offices

waking us out of

this dream

Moon Shadow