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The Stream
Our voices are lost in trees above this water cut
trench, its meandering path our only guide to reality;
to the small cottage lost to us in the depths of the
Vermont wilderness, in the fading light the small frames
of my sister and me, each utterly alone except for a
tightly grasped hand, slog through a gauntlet of
buzzing, eager, pinpricks itching our naked limbs and
itching to wake up from this dream where even the sun
shuns us as we fade away forever into the biting
darkness.
And now I awake from that dream to a voice yelling that
I won’t have time to finish my breakfast and I imagine,
or maybe I’m still dreaming, that the girl whose hand I
grasped a moment before is also being awakened by a
recognizable voice and is also grasping at reality, this
flow of time wherein we find
ourselves lost.
And I shiver, in this cold, dark, Minnesota winter.
Nostalgia
Usually I only lose one.
Sometimes it’s just gone, leaving a bloody pit.
Sometimes I bite down until one cracks into a million
pieces, sand filling my mouth.
Sometimes one is hanging by a single thread and I jam it
back into its bleeding socket, but in the end…
In the end I wake up, holding my breath at first,
letting it out while running my tongue over my pristine
teeth.
The other night I lost two at once, and I woke up
worried, I didn’t remember my dream, but I felt
something
slipping away…
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Face in Cafe
Sad eyes turn
down at the corners
down to small, fragile cheekbones, sad in their
downward curves, down to a mouth that turns down in the
saddest of ways, all the lines of the face turning
down, and my eyes move from her face
down to her small frame, lines no longer sad, curves
exuding something exciting.
I imagine
downward lines
turning upside down
but I only leave a tip for my coffee, walk
down the street into darkness.
Transcendence
“A miracle of total availability, of the transparency
of all functions of space, though the latter nonetheless
remains unfathomable in its vastness and can only be
exorcised by speed.”
-Jean Baudrillard
Sidewalk
Strange eyes focus on me,
he greets me from between rotting teeth, behind him
bricks of a bank stretch into the sky.
I walk straight ahead— glazed eyes forward gazing into
the future.
Highway
Roads flying by, tarred opaque as oil,
immersed in the wheel and intermittent
pedals, a promise of future, blindly
driving with tinted windows,
nothing but a dark reflection.
Sky
Reflecting off the top of clouds
an outlined circle of light
behind the shadow of a plane, clouds clear to hairlines
of roads, insignificant buildings, vast reaches of land
and water.
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