Ian Blake

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Best Poem of Ian Blake

My Neighbor's House

Until I stepped out to the ledge
to find out what the tile in the roof
was made of on the building next to mine,

and I stumbled, and my arm took a few
moments drawing back to reach the wall, I never knew

that beauty is panic,
the manic clacking; the eye’s communiqué
that time is lacking for the mission;
the dread of leaving early; the fear of never
getting to explore; the plea for an extension,
“shortly we’ll know more.”

What river flows in the caverns beneath my feet?
Who drinks in those taverns and who meets his lover
on the stone ...

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