Second Sunrise

by Gardner Dorton

Speak to me, for maybe the last 

time. This minute, already stolen, 

turns away from us 

the same way birds

are turning from the city. 

Hold my hands

as if they are not 

already guillotines, as if this

kind of dying is not communal. 

So it does end by fire, 

in second

sunrise, and we will become

the last great shadow, hungry.

Hurry, and hold your joy

like it ever

knew you. I am so sorry

  that every word

I write is not an act

  of creation, but

the sirens are burning, they call

everyone to be a prophet, and ask we move

off the crags into their drowning, 

they beg that we

listen. Hold out your hands,

cup them,

and see what you are given.

Gardner Dorton (he/him) is a Tennessee poet living in Tallahassee, FL as a PhD student at FSU. His poems have appeared in Hobart, Crab Creek Review, and Narrative. His chapbook "Stone Fruit" was published in 2021 by Glass Poetry Press.