Articles and Stories
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"The Smiles"
by
Stephen Evans
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Who is it that you love, I wonder?
Sorry, Whom. I see no sign
that it could possibly be me.
Sorry, I. No, me. Whoever.
Sorry, Whom. Ever. Whatever.
Where you were is there but you are not.
The chair is there. The pen. The lamp. Not you.
Not you is there. Is there somehow not you?
Yes. Not you is my devoted friend.
On Visiting Sleepy Hollow CemeteryI looked for footprints,
sure each step had shaped the earth,
and found the earth enfolding them instead.
As I left, I noticed my own footprints,
They are still.
Still.
They are Still.
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I don't think men know much of poetry.
Women have the Gift, because the heart
is closer to the breath in smaller frames.
My own heart never rests. Funny thing.
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The barricades lay outside our content
and all the restless harrowing detail
