F. Daniel Rzicznek

Dead leaves, sidewalk, black dog—empty, sunlit March street with pines, oil stains, someonewalking purposefully in the direction opposite yours on the other shore of the four-lane’s currentin a full suit of armor: plumed, visored helmet, heavy gauntlets, floating burgundy cape.When you raise your empty hand in greeting, his answer rattles melancholy’s padlockloose, a jackpot’s din …

You must trust me:slip your hand into the darkness of the wall-mounted mailbox.That dry, feathery something dusting you, knuckles to nails,is no cause for alarm, no enemy—just an ordinary brown moth, brown as the back of a stolen horse crossing a flood-stage river,brown as puddle water, as bark. She crawled inside near daybreak, the night …