Journal Wyoming, Photography, Poetry

Poetry Day / Glass


Years vanish as if I had been sliding across glass

instead of living: my fingernails leave skid marks on time.

It was a happier life that I knew before this year, and yet,

I managed to digest my father’s death and to end a cold war

with my brother; a man who pampers an ancient grudge,

like a Russian who aches to launch one last missile

for old time’s sake.