by Tom Zimmerman
He tried to bull-rush life, but rammed his horns
through subtlety and damn near drowned. Submerged
and breached, the shadings: grays, but also hues
of beauty he had never noticed and
the noticing of which impressed upon
him possibilities of hues for which
he lacked the lens, for now at least, to see.
Not just the enigmatic women in
his dreams, not just a mother’s madness masked
(in part) from Sis and him, not just a text
by Faulkner, Proust, or James ambiguous
or willfully misread. But more: to live
like light on moving water, owing no
consideration to his death or style.
This poem appears in Lodestone Issue 2. Get your copy here: