Fall 2014 / Spring 2015
We knelt to feed the pigeons.
We questioned all religions.
With measured confidence we sailed into the storm of each day.
The compass of our hearts spun wildly, never pointed the way.
From electrical sockets everything needed we learned,
two eyes and a gaping mouth, dumbfounded, certain to burn.
For each query a deep silence, rendering them moot.
Always thirteen steps up to the hangman’s patient noose.
So boring, so ponderous, always words that hurl, heave.
You illuminate each room when you, finally, leave.
(Poems from Thom Ward’s manuscript – in progress --
Stadium of the Unlikely
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