Fall 2014 / Spring 2015
I fear my last vision
may be of me
soldiering in Vietnam.
1967 or eight.
I want that last breath
in the world behind my eyes
to be of my wife, my kids, my pets,
I was kinder than in war.
Circling in the dark, mosquitoes
find their blood-meal targets
with their sucking darts.
Regrets pierce the skin of sleep,
waking you to vigilance and itching
rooted deeper than any bite.
How much tossing before you turn
on a light and sit up to read, rather
than take the stand to face accusers?
The forests we see, like light
from dead stars, may already be gone …
seasonal changes and continuing
feeds of oxygen misdirect;
a collective slight of breath. Follow
these words with your eyes. Here, there
are fewer birds and bees to pollinate,
fewer rabbits to hunt or pull out of hats, …
can it be we are one
generation of seeds from becoming
a magician caught in his own trick?
An incantation, a wave of a stick,
the old hocus pocus, and it’s …
Now you see us, now you don’t!
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