Maybe

we die 
and it all goes dark

dark
as an apple seed

Little Evening Prayer

may I lose
possession
of my self,
every scrap
that I have
bought and sold
and be the 
empty
shopping cart
alone,
shining 
in some 
parking lot,
sea gulls 
drifting,
lost or not,
in pink and
orange
liquid dusk
that lifts into
the river
somewhere

Driving Down A Gravel Road, Thinking About Bud Powell

the potholes 
and the ruts
bring to mind 
Bud’s skull, 
cratered by a Philly cop 
in ‘45 and yet
it guarded 
Tempus Fugit
and Un Poco Loco
to spill one day
like rivulets
of melted snow 
in April
cortex-creased,
donkey-nibbled 
hills in 
morning sun, 
glittering
synaptically,
defiantly,
because

mark jackley is the author of several chapbooks, most recently On the Edge of a Very Small Town. His work has appeared in Sugar House Review, Fifth Wednesday, Natural Bridge, Talking River, The Cape Rock, and other journals. He lives in Purcellville, VA.