Here we are again, on a stage not our own. The crowd is a thermometer of a 100 degrees. A microphone is a snowball. We still finish before we're drowned and they're left on the island of attention. Instead, boredom catches us in a lukewarm thaw, a flood we can float in until the bottom drags us under. This stage was always our Titanic. It was the iceberg that crashed our song. It was what sank us, clutching railings, wearing life jackets, freezing whistles in our lips. Where will we be rescued, even if only our bodies are what's left to catch? On top of a mountain where our bones will have to be thrown over others' backs to make those who'll run around after us. Or maybe on a shore with a dove and raven kissing, the desire to stay loving the wish to flee. With us saying next time it will be fire, such flames as no one has seen or experienced before.
Donald Illich Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
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