Author Archives: Timothy P. Schilling
3:10 to the Coast
This way goes a different way,
beautiful from above, past
a factory and windows
and now sheep and now mud.
Who am I, geese, wittily concealed?
Who am I, gulls, your salt sea revealed,
after water and grass
and stubble and mud?
Hanging on
Commuter
Amid the vast network of tracks and trains
one puts his body in and
it matters a lot whether he
puts it in or in front of the
train. We who ride know
the difference, but he who
has stalled and rerouted us
is blank, extinguished,
a smoke without a flame
The wind blew my leaves away
I’ve lost all my sparkly bits.
I’ve no wool for the winter.
Look at me, sleek and black,
sexy but cold.
The world we’ve left
An I.V. and more
I went spiralling down into my friend’s surgery,
into the needle they stuck in his back.
Heard them say, Don’t move.
Felt the hard force of it.
Don’t move.
Went with his eyes to the lights later.
You should see him on the courts,
the balls he hits.
Or did.
In doubles you’d make sure
he was on your side.
Waiting in the wings
A cold snap
My salt dashed has not kept you, bird,
though my mother said it would.
You’ve left the fence, you’re ochre now,
and the boy, bereft, is wonder-whyed
and blue.
Bob the Builder
Utrecht Journal 