"But first, baby, as you climb and count the stairs (and they total the same), did you, sometime or somewhere, have a different idea?
Is this, baby, what you were born to feel, and do, and be?"

-Kenneth Fearing

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Visions of Ice and Falling


Sometimes Doug,

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.

                           -Brent Allard