The world’s greatest story
happened not a township away
in the same scenery
your eyes passed by
a week ago.
There are still your footprints
chalked along the sidewalk
as if they were the stage directions,
some of your breath
still floats along in the air
as if it were the audience.
A sad joke you weren’t there.
Actually, an angering injustice
now that you realize how close
the world now seems, despite the story-
a whisper into a pillow
in a locked room
of an abandoned house
in the basement.
No, but worse than that.
Half a thought
of static shock
on a whisp of fray
from a very small T-shirt.
A pale blue dot like the sight
of a dull and damp particle
zapped in and out of your vision
in less than the time it takes
light to shrug in a vaccum,
whipped past the point of no return
a million miles away
where now only the gravity
is talking about it-
a moment that combusted
a very far distance from here.
A story–the story–retold…
This is mysterious and compelling, like James Wright’s “Milkweed,” one of my favorite poems ever. It reminds me of a painting I once had, of an oncoming bullet. It disturbed me so greatly that I had to throw it away, which was also horrible. Is this just a coincidence, or is it related? I will read it until I know.
Or think I do!
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