[Part of a multi-part, epic poem currently being written surrounding events of June 9, 1972, The Black Hills Flood, during which thousands became homeless, hundreds and hundreds injured, and 238 people lost their lives in one night of flash flooding.]
They roam the land where I live
and yet I don't live here
they do
I am as invisible to them
as you are
They go shopping
for their invisible lunches
full of twigs and broken glass
they walk through the wrinkled hills
filled with steep evergreen canyons
as deep as wooden coffins
looking for nothing
but what they see
just empty towns
and houses without people
These collaborators in a dark parade
occasionally meet each other
nod, say hello
some know each other
others do not
Their silent conversations
contain broken tail lights and splintered siding
with knowing glances inside knowing eyes
unseen portraits to each other
slashed canvases covered in damaged oils
seething with life and love
none of it loud
quiet ghosts filling empty spaces
Magnetized by one day and the hours of rain
they stick to the sides of canyons
bits of bark trees and grass
an occasional coffee pot
part of a chair
the springs of a twisted bed
across the creek from a house
that stands to this day
Sometimes naked
they breathe as they remember
their last breath
the chest rises and falls
their last breath goes in and out
seconds after second minutes after minute
hours after hour days after day
their last breath makes them live for us
Copyright © 2012 by Barry G. Wick
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment