Leveler Poetry Journal
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Way Too Far

 

Dread biting your shoulder.

The mass grave statistics

Are never in time to hear

The harpist’s tune, which

Rings like a bell shattered

By the flat-mindedness of

Flawless desert, where your

Father lives. Read the sign:

His nuptials were a prison

Of cosmology, the fleshly

Guilt of one entangled in

Becoming without having

Prepared an airstrip for its

Arrival. This means you run

Out of runway, going way too far

To land unscathed, or ever.

Then all we can do is mourn

And ask our safer questions.




Thomas Snarsky