Proem Press

Selelcted Poems

  mastectomy    Poetry    the journey


 

exponent of the horizontal

 

Are you a doctor?

 

A woman in a floral raincoat plants herself in Bill’s path and loudly demands that he direct her to the parking structure. Level G1. Her husband’s sick. He took a bad turn. She can’t find the way back.

 

What’s your view? 

 

Should Bill start around?  Proceed to protest that he’s in a hurry? Doctors don't know everything?  Far from it? There's a host of passages? As many parking structures? 

 

Can’t you see? 

 

There are signs everywhere. G can mean either Green or Ground. You’re hopelessly lost. On the wrong level, headed in the wrong direction. There's an etiquette called Fate.

 

Follow me. 

 

Into that vast middle distance between cornea and cortex. Where dew doesn't form, no trumpets blow, you’ll find no church bells or stars, or, for that matter, darkness… 

 

                                       Here we are.



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