The clouds do not bother us
when we look for heaven. Always
we find a faint, veiled outline
like the ship on the horizon,
a dark memory
on the edge. The sea moves in waves,
garbling the language.
We’ve been a great distance
and the darkness has rolled back
enough to be honest.
— Russell Evatt, opening lines to “[The clouds do not bother us],” burntdistrict (vol. 2, no. 1, Winter 2013)
There are times when they gather at the edge of your life,
shadows slipping over the far hills, daffodils
blooming too early, the dark matter of the universe
that threads its way through the few thousand blackbirds
that have invaded the trees out back. Every ending
sloughs off our dreams like snakeskin. This is the kind of
black ice the mind skids across. The candlelight burning down
into the sand. The night leaving its ashes in our eyes.
Richard Jackson, opening strophe to “Alternate Endings,” from Resonance (The Ashland Poetry Press, 2010)
Made-Up Dreams | Built To Spill