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
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