Counting House
We send each other the number of our days
without. Here is my hoard,
a show of high-piled sunlight
tempting shadows.
I near 1001 dovetailed nights,
spared mornings
the samoon still follows,
pouring wind down
dunes like a djinn.
On its tongue, poison.
To tell a dry story: once, I conjured
ease like open sesame.
Why then, in this palace, does ruin sound
like music to me, all the clinking empty?
Max Heinegg's poems have been nominated for Best of the Net and The Pushcart Prize. Max has been a finalist for the poetry prizes of Crab Creek Review, December Magazine, Cultural Weekly, Cutthroat, Rougarou, Asheville Poetry Review, and the Nazim Hikmet prize.
Additionally, he is a singer-songwriter and recording artist whose records can be heard at maxheinegg.com. He lives and teaches English in the public schools of Medford, MA.