Out of the corner
of his eye the
other world, the one
that always seems like
real one, the one
without us
on the hill a
saddle of light.
He dreams he wakes
in his childhood
room, can't find the
light to write this
down, then wakes for
real, finds light and
paper, writes To
place back the stone
of origin
and enter the
world of end-time
pools of
moonlight
in the
fields.
A long way from the Andes
the sound of a wooden flute
rides up the escalator
at Lexington Avenue.
Sudden as birds
two girls' hands
break into conversation
across the car.
Under the snow the meadow
more like a river than the river.
Threadbare hillside, whose colors
go out as clouds gather.
Two crows cross the frozen lake
without a sound.
dusk, Ninth Avenue, face
bathed in a cellphone glow, cowboy
Narcissus, at his tasks
_______________________
Michael O'Brien
A V E N U E
Flood Editions
2012
