The night sky's a black stretch limo, boss in the back
behind tinted glass. You could say that.
Down here's a dungeon, up there's the glittering
ring of keys in the sentry's fist. The self
exists. Beauty too. But they're elsewhere.
You could say that. Or not speak till commanded to.
Dawn, alone on the porch, I watch
the one map unfold and flatten before me—
same toppled TV antenna in the berry vines,
same cardinal, bright wound in the pasture grass.
My wound is my business. I've wearied of it.
From now on, morning will be attended
by its own noises only, evening will approach
without palms in its path. Let the horses
steam in the field, the sun-struck
river blanch. I'm boarding the troop train
Chris Forhan's Other Poems
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(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
- Heather Burns
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(1886 - 1967)