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Image for post
Photo by Lili Popper on Unsplash

The horizon is a veil
of netted clouds, chasing
after a train full
of unexpected titles.

An unbidden chill
turns stowaway, dipping
beneath an upturned
woolen collar, lined
in regret.

Finding me,
no matter how diligently
the crumbs are laid out,
or tracks counted daily
in the solid clarity
of shadowy walks.

There are guarantees
of those more ravenous
behind. The longer I count,
the more I’m convinced
that the eyes we’d blame
are more familiar than most.

Some keys need to stay gone.
Some locks need a railway spike.
A goal is merely a wish, shoveled
into the shoot, and sent down
to make ties with the soot.

Burning up to speed ahead
works sometimes, but more
often contemplation is how
we get to enjoy the view.

Not to be confused
with hesitancy, which will
cement you to the roof
of the gingerbread house
the rest of your days
if you’re not careful.

Knockdowns are sneaky that way.
It’s never until I’m scrambling
to find comforters that I know
what kind of night it’s going to be.

All this trying
to pull up and over
these unspokens, layered
too thick between
the orbs of ghosts in photos,
who’ve all departed without

But that’s the problem
with unspeakables.

The more roads we build,
the larger the cars that’ll drive
over, and I’m uncertain
my wheels can haul
your terrain anymore.

I’ve got to stop
holding up traffic
waiting for you
to pull out all the stops.

Memories hold us,
hostages of dreams
in little red cabin what-ifs,
where idyllic pathways
seek weak convictions
with pleading eyes
we can’t ignore.

Looking down, my feet have fused
with ether. Tiniest outlines
of steps remain as snow rushes
to fill them, before I unearth
to join the crowd overhead.

Flying perpetual circles
in pure instinct of another event,
horizon where there was a tip
about a place to drop off
parts, unwanted.

Perched to pick up,
to retread
what might become
a new title.

Written by

Holes and a series of rabbits — my debut poetry collection — now available!

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