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