top of page

"Seal and Lock" by Jesse Miksic

Pump Station

The sound of the clock

Becomes the sound of the water

This fluid moves like

Color through the brain

This hour’s cruel and

Fine hydraulics press your

Bygone days into tomorrows —

Rusted lever, seal and lock

The sound of the water

Becomes the sound of the clock.

Sigil for Permanence

this night i sit

and defend

a little


of Time

drawn about my

still figure a schema,

clear stars,

unpassing cars,

door that wants

to Lock

behind me

it can’t

touch me here,

the diffuse sadness

seeping into

all the Parts

of our lives

here a line

is drawn through

my middle, here

i am under

the Protection

of the squared circle

(waiting while the

night sounds Fall away)

Invisible Boogie

After Twin Peaks in a hotel room

Someone has imagined me

A hotel lobby

In the winter

Morning dark

They manifested me

A lonely staircase,

Frost-touch window

Overlooks a park

This troubled dreamer

Sees me, shifting

Past the tight-shut

Formal dining room

They feed me well

Conditioned atmosphere,

A basement door half-open,

Handle made of chrome

I sing a song

To be forgotten when the

Curtain seizes up

Against the sun

I slow-walk backwards

Down the hallway,

I unfold

When morning comes.

Waypoint Travelogue

I must be something like

The hundred billionth primitive idler

To witness this

Annual assay of the geese

Southbound following the

Turning earth’s body heat

(Dim eye for their returning

Weak voice for their retelling)

Honking, they draw the circle,

They make a disciplined arrow,

And the forces of nature move with them —

And all that spell needs

Is our crossroads at the center,

Fly in the web,

Lamb softening again,

Or the slow drip

Of that dear blood, oh flock,


Open Field Cosmology

The day I found myself

adrift in the tall grasses:

landscape let and laid across

a grand swath of memory

Running fingers stately

up the stalks, I have

brushed aside the wholeness

of any city and its

numbing sunset lights

(Me on my father’s shoulders,

all this grass a stillness,

shallow water washing

gently across time)

A southbound wind closes

every distance

Look across me, familiar face

of the golding harvest,

what goes there, there

beyond the trees?

Jesse Miksic is a graphic designer and writer living in the suburbs of Philadelphia. He spends his life writing poetry, scribbling in notebooks by the fireplace, and having adventures with his wonderful wife and two children. Recent placements include Drunk Monkeys, Green Ink Poetry, and Pink Plastic House.


bottom of page