Today's poem is by Darin Ciccotelli


Farms reticent enough
that they back away
from the road,

to some dream.
In the walls, having
been disfigured,
you think you see

spiders. Nothingness has a
fertile odor. You
can't trust yourself

to understand its
ways. Brazenly
you search online for

person's rendition
of the farm. Photographs
of gouged clapboard.
Outside you

hear an honest-to-god
weather-vane. Now
you're giving them

My friends
are like a war I fought in.
Our collective past is
what I have. Outside,

the pull-shade of landscape
rolls away, and I'm
throwing faces at it. They've
never set foot here.

The next day, faded
thoughts on me
like a commencement gown.
I sit at the computer again.

It is wind. It is hyenas
and thorns. I keep going back
to when I first
fashioned each

crude animal. If they
are of my making,
who will
make them stay?

Copyright © 2016 Darin Ciccotelli All rights reserved
from West Branch
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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