Living In A Terrarium Poem by Joe Bisicchia

Our ways sometimes lead us astray. And we burrow deep,
deep far away. We are close to where we need to be, and yet
a chasm separates dawn from day, Paradise from its plumbing and wiring.
And even with our little umbrellas we are lost for words but
words leap anyway meaningless as if dissolved chalk,

ours soon to smear on this playful walk
outside the stretched and loaded truck.
We pass pines of islands in sea of asphalt in our found suburbia silence,
except for the rain. And we question our earned piece.
Dove on a dashboard in the cab of a big Mayflower

here parked in front of the World Windows and Blinds, peeks.
Or is it just a U-Haul. Long as a mile, whatever. And we have traveled in it
house to home. We wander momentarily lost in this new universe.
There is a fog machine somewhere over hills
where giants break bread.

We, for our part, bend ferns instead and wonder of ourselves.
We do not look long enough at the setting sun, at where it should be,
but maybe fear it, smeared up there somewhere above,
up where love and rain are made,
somewhere in the steam above the broken bread.



Published by Quail Bell Magazine,2018