In Crisis
Our metaphors glisten and coalesce emerging from mist like freshly-caught fish; some rising up like hemlocks, needled, tall, others slithering or skulking, and some few in postures of sadness like parents, sons; likenesses of the sea return, tidal, with their beaches, moonlit, murmuring, music we thought described our happiness or a happiness beyond human pain, beyond the words we threw out heedless. Now nearly feral, searching redemption, they grasp the least thing real, a splinter, a tear stain, the flap of a banner in wind, seeking the flat desks of their origins, hoping to recognize a corner under a stair, wanting the shelter of our tongues, our mouths. Harold Ackerman - Berwick, PA