into the shape of a question I cannot answer.
Perplexed, I can't help but wonder if we aren't
more alike than we both think, tiny dancers
tip-toeing away from what we know can kill
us, calm as the bloom of cancer.
How can you smother the unbridled and bucking will
of the animal in you galloping toward
the stars? Your eyes, rusted as mars, betray desires unfulfilled.
Wind blows in your hair as you fast-forward
into a life where that hard stare falls apart
alongside the winding white cord
that choked you in the first place. There is an art,
I'd argue, to peeling away from
the dead parts of yourself, separating darks
from lights and the long lonesome
fight to own what was never promised,
the sweet and subtle hum
of a lifetime you've missed.
But how should I know, I'm just
you, lost in the mist.
(c)Corey Nixon
published in Skipping Stones 2007
Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA
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