By Carl Adamshick
I didn’t know a woman could vanish
within herself, didn’t know fear
would then be her master.
I didn’t see the sun under the lindens
of November or the moon riding
a wet black horse.
of November or the moon riding
a wet black horse.
I thought my body was mine
until it became a window,
a map anyone could use.
until it became a window,
a map anyone could use.
I didn’t see the red lights
of the radio tower or the city park
laden with fog.
The year had slipped out
of most of its clothes and midnight
was in formal attire,
everyone swayed, held in the music,
assured that the turning
of the year
was an entrance into an afterlife
of unlimited sunshine.
We lived.
I tried to explain the sound
within our dreaming
not as ocean, but as street names.
