the shiniest thing in the world
is the razor that just cut your thumb,
the slight silver glint
through bright, bright blood.
And sometimes, when the streets asleep,
I hear my own
whispers, through the branches,
of dark maple trees.
Not even the shadows hear it;
no one does, but me.
What I say (that no one hears)
I can’t repeat out loud,
because nothing could save me then,
not my true love
or my medicine pouch.
Nothing could protect me.
Imagine Doug, that we are on a bus.
the seats are packed and everyone else is sleeping,
not conscious that we’ve stopped.
You see that ice is on the ground
and there’s a building made of concrete
behind a black iron gate.
You can’t make out who walks the aisle
bending down to tell each passenger,
We’ve arrived. Wake up, wake up.