Monday, 17 November 2008

Where the Mountain Took Him

Imagine this room,
stain on the dark wooden floor
hole where the gas line ran
where I sat up worried
I’d killed everyone.
A room wet with guilt
a shrine to ignorance
and naivety,
a manger of pain.
This room changed
but remained the same.
When I kept falling down
it made the same crash.
When I returned,
it was for sewing-
(Nothing else really)

My feet creak the floor
boards giving under the weight
of years, or under my shadow-
both mixed.
No shadow of turning.

Dave Barber
Albuquerque, New Mexico
United States
(Upcoming Book: 'Don’t Ask Those Questions')

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