January House Literary Journal

by Samuel A. Bellin

I am released into my nothingness. I turn it into air
disturbed by the pitiful clacking of black squares. 

Above my gabled roof the yellow moon hangs like a pear
ripened and full of summer’s sweet juice. I lust

and flick the dial on the record player back to “phono”,
watch its red light burn as I deftly pick the needle,

sizing it for a moment before letting it fall and punch
the sliced grooves on that wavy-black vinyl. 

Alone, I slide on the pumpkin bright floorboards 
in soft illusions spun by the sizzling record.

I dream of dust, and cities sprawling with a million open doors. 
The streets are lit by a triad of lamps

staked on every corner like flannelled scarecrows,
bulbs full of ghostly light. These are just dreams. They close

when the laptop clicks shut, when the jazz jumps 
and all that remains is the record player’s staticky echo.

Samuel A. Bellin lives in Lewisburg, PA. His poetry appears or is forthcoming in Rust and Moth, wildscape.literary journal, and Delicate Emissions. In his free time, he enjoys hanging out with cats and wandering.

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