by Tyler Dunston
Though there is nothing magical
about this city, I can see my father
in the windows of voided
pop-ups, in the glazed
countertops of nighthawk diners.
Standing under a skybridge
connecting two multinational banks
I can see right through it—
the moon and stars wilted
through layers of floor-to-ceiling glass.
Tyler Dunston is a writer, artist, and PhD candidate in English literature at the University of Michigan, where he also works at the University of Michigan Museum of Art. He received his MFA in poetry from Boston University, and his poems have appeared in Narrative, Nimrod, Raleigh Review, Red Wheelbarrow, and other journals. His critical work can be found in the Los Angeles Review of Books, Michigan Quarterly Review (online), and elsewhere.
Hawaii Pacific Review 