Hounds Come Home

By Kevin Stadt

dumb, frozen gargoyles leer at 
space and ocean and grave
the metal aftertaste of black cosmic radiation
the soundless drone of vacuum 
the drip, drip, drip of cold water in a black cave

oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, and nitrogen
swing on a single-serving noose
brushed by cool spring night breeze that 
flows through open doors and 
broken stained glass

seven hounds pad eagerly through the 
maze of renewed pews
tasting kaleidoscopic constellations 
on the gravid atmosphere
embedded in a matrix of 
mushrooms, mouse turds, unhurried ferns, and
fat, groping vines

Kevin Stadt holds a master’s degree in teaching writing and a doctorate in American literature. He currently teaches writing at Hanyang University. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Neologism Poetry Journal, Nixes Mate Review, Rust + Moth, The Sunlight Press, and Trouvaille Review, among others. He lives in South Korea with his wife and sons, who are interdimensional cyborg pirates wanted in a dozen star systems. You can visit him online at kevinstadt.com.