poems as hand- and foot-holds on a glass mountain

No Story

 

 

                 

Sipping coffee in an unfamiliar shop

in shades faking celebrity or notoriety

he noticed a slim paperback left behind

its cover torn off, its cheap pages thumbed dirty,

read a few pages so familiar

he could be re-reading

The light in the room faded in and out

not in flashes, in slow surges

He remembered no re-lived

a night spent in a small tent

alone in deep woods

animal rustlings in the trees

darkness heavy and thick as lake water

time thought lost to the mind’s slow blanking sweep 

wiping the moment’s window clear

of briefly young now elderly rain and mud

fooling us into thinking there are other times than this

strung on wisps of fantasy

“Don’t be fooled by skimmings,” 

the small book said in a lisped mind-echo

“there are no stories.”

 

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