For Crying Outright by A.J. Huffman

You strike a pose.
Spreading your arms
in mocking.
But three times
the banshee scream fails
to complete the rotation.

You open the window.
Again.
Hoping the midnight wind
will curb the echo.

But the hollow widens instead.
Rushing to meet your fist
the moment it cracks
like glass.
Or the clock
that bleeds for you.
But never quite gets the timing right.