Fragments of a landscape; an after hours club

There was once some snowfall
that made things white,
and people red.

Even in her sleep
you can hear the sirens.

We smooth the seconds away,
stare at a piece of sky
rock the miniature monsters
beneath our bed.

The cold clocks all flash
their naked numbers
and the snow, millions of little asterisks
go on crashing.

In our sleep, winter with
all the children whistling,
pulled away by gigantic dogs.

The snow looks like glue
over the lake
full of everyone’s salty tears.

Though I don’t know you, I think you could probably stop the rain

It’s raining downtown,
which is normal for
a city with skies the
color of past tense,
and there’s people
wearing puffy coats walking
away from the center
of the city.  The buildings
are all vacant and small
enough to photograph
in a single frame.
People in cars turn
on windshield wipers,
back and forth I looked
at you and you at me.
You told me Dostoyevsky
meant something to you,
something like the waves
in an ocean as your cell
phone gave off just enough
light where I could see
you smile. And it made
me want to know what
it was like to hear music
the way you hear music.
But you turned your head
away to signal for your friends.
Over here, you yelled
I’m living my afterlife.  

Noah Falck is an elementary school teacher in Dayton, Ohio, and the author of three poetry chapbooks, most recently Life As A Crossword Puzzle (winner of the Ohio Open Thread Chapbook Award).  His poetry has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and appeared or will appear in Forklift, Ohio, Kenyon Review, Copper Nickel, and The Pinch.