Paul Ilechko is a Pushcart nominated poet who lives with his partner in Lambertville, NJ. His work has appeared in a variety of journals, including The Night Heron Barks, Tampa Review, Iron Horse Literary Review, Sleet Magazine, and The Inflectionist Review. His first album, “Meeting Points”, was released in 2021.
Along the main street the buildings were fading into pale pastel shades of green or pink as if someone had applied a silvery wash to the entire town starting in the central area and gradually infiltrating the less developed neighborhoods the ones where people were uncommon and the gestalt was more that of a charcoal sketch then a finished oil some of the buildings had flags but it was not clear anymore what they were promising and the marked-out spaces that used to be packed with cars parked head to toe were empty now the lines slowly fading back into the crumbling asphalt where plants were beginning to grow again after so many years of absence the people that did still occasionally pass were unrecognizable their faces blurred and they walked quickly past when they happened to meet not looking directly at each other and of course nobody ever looked up at the sky where the clouds were still hanging low and threatening rapidly changing colors in a mysterious sequence that never seemed to repeat.
Sonnet with Cables
His heart was too large weighed heavy in his chest attached to cables once thick with amperage he had debarked at the island many years ago wasting his time in the gaps between light and stone spare cables twined around his neck a hi-vis rubber jacket and shallow boots the single road ran through a range of low-slung hills where children clung tightly to flowered aprons salt spilled on their morning sandwich their open mouths a torch of melody a song that groped through seasons of darkness to a glorious ringing as the gray- flecked seam of daylight returned his thread of consciousness tightening then falling away.
It’s impossible to find true darkness without leaving the atmosphere there’s no place here on earth without at least a trace of luminosity of elementary particles that at some other time might well identify as waves an unobtrusive pulse dialed down from ten to barely over zero unmeasurable as wattage imperceptible as current as if standing in water on a basement floor that dreams of being a river slowly losing mass to entropy in a constant stream of evaporation where everything is so goddam gradual where physics shapes the container that chemistry explodes and all that remains is a layer of blackening mold and a flickering bulb that barely casts sufficient light to see the scurrying mice.