August 8, 2010

In the bottom of some hour

by Alan Catlin

after last call, nearly
snow blind in some field
on a stoned drunk mission
to head due north of nowhere,
alone and lost, skating ice,
the suicide oceans of night,
subzero windchill through
a forest of dead trees.
mounds of snow like headstones
in the Gravesend where no
man goes; staggering, close to
brain death, the body's folly,
walking on when there is no
place to go.


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