Young, I raced through summers in bare feet,
through sunburned fields with clover-crazy bees,
over shards of brown glass pushed to mounds
as alters heaped by mad old men cast down

to share their pain with an oblivious child.
Soap, a stiff brush, Mercurochrome, a smile:
salves for cuts from countless careless flights
across the scraps of countless shadowed lives.

Are paper, pencils, promises, and prayer;
silver clouds, the golden rule, our faith in fair;
sex, song, and vows to live in vivid view
of fields unmarred by mounded dreams askew

bars enough against brigades of venial sin
that live and somehow arm and aim to swim
and swarm through windows of our present tense
and change our songs of flight to dissonance?

Gavin W Sisk


4 thoughts on “Glass

    • It’s still there – the field by the railroad tracks near my childhood home in Spokane. Homeless men camped out there in the summers. We called them hobos and transients back then, in the early sixties. They drank gin and beer and broke the bottles in middens near their campfires. I wasn’t very afraid of the men. They seemed like ghosts in what felt like an autistic childhood. The bees didn’t scare me either. I sat in the grass with the bees and the glass and the men, and I got bit and cut and barked at. But it was better than TV. I’m writing a post about it.

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