Tim Lynch
van gogh’s reanimated hand writes about stars some say are dead
every depressive’s favorite story
says my last last words a day after i failed
to lodge a bullet in the monstrance of my heart
were the sadness will last forever
and judging by passyunk’s
surviving stars crumbs in a couch’s dark
it's true and you whose heart is derelict the way
history’s a sacked shrine to persistence
envision your wrist a resurrection
of cardinals whistles in the chest
of a pine assigning dry needles to dirt
while lamplight riveting wet stoop rails
tongues mucked street gutters
unraveled in noon rain everything
is letting go how cruel
life must be to imagine me
hammering a round into the warped board
of my spine in the middle
of a ready harvest to presume i didn’t want to
die in the promised way not leaking
but a listless wind in my throat
pushing pulling back each breath
a brushstroke repeated to my body's last
privilege its rigorous indifference
but your mind i guess is a tumbling city
rebuilt off kilter by the hand of a drunk
steepled on itself in a punk bar
mirror constellated with names
of forgotten artists and so sadness
wishing your heart plucked by crows
and broke down in their burnt out bellies
to a cough even death
is holy enough to say god
damn it look at these shitty
shining stars
that they outlast
that they are nothing
Philadelphia, PA
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Tim Lynch was awarded a 2025 Emerging Artist Fellowship through the Delaware Division of the Arts. His poetry appears most recently in Frozen Sea, t’ART, Garland, Voicemail Poems, Tupelo Quarterly, ONLY POEMS DAILY. His poetry and fiction have been nominated for Best of the Net, Best Microfiction and the Pushcart Prize. His first screenplay was a semifinalist in the ScreenCraft Horror Competition. He is a paraprofessional for children with intellectual and physical disabilities.