Come look. From the balcony.
If you shudder and cough
a moment later you’ll sigh.
Tell me. Is sister sleeping?
Is the landscape weeping?
Is Abigail peeking? This landscape
so bleak and stiflingly echolalic –
Is a white carpet worth a wintry
frost’s babbling brook
but mutely monochromatic apocalyptic.
Nearer. Come see the view
nearer the pith.
This may be
maybe may be
editors note: And, is sleep what waking is like? (This poem comes from Darryl's recently published collection, Life's Prisoners. You can get your copy here. Congratulations, Darryl!) - mh clay