Poet’s Corner: Out of Reach

You say it’s dangerous

you say it’s too risky to be alone

            it is winter


I lay in a field

in the frost      the bridge across from me


my hand on my chest             

my skin is hot

(like desert sand)


I am not sick


I close my eyes

and can hear the lady, whistling

on the park bench, smell

the breeze, the fiery wood

I picture the crack in your ceiling

electric-blue light on your desk


I place a hand in my pocket

grab a loose thread

twist it between my fingers until it burns 

like the tip of a recently extinguished match

I unravel

silent as stone             eyes open

I whisper your name 

beneath the crest – 

ink-faded red dusk  

I listen