Poetry By
Christopher Way
Published on: 9/22/2005
Fort Myers, Florida
The downtown cafe is full by midnight. We have grown a grim love for outpost towns, & outpost-hunger for leaving. We are sentries for the seasonal horde, muttering at tourist-traffic, but starved for transfusion. We walk, flayed, masochists to the coast's cold mist and all its breath of leaving. Those who rail against it most want least to leave. They nestle up to steep banks of desperation. At three in the morning we scatter, drive off, down the highways, down the sprawl of avenue and overpass, the city, so farflung and space-gorging and in that stretch reflecting, mocking our murmured, slurred desires; all of Fort Myers spilling, spinning from her original downtown coast-hub like some meager melody launching echoes from a valley; like the comet of a fly burst against a windshield
Published on: 10/5/2004
Spring Nerve Sheath
Spring's here and the trees are budding. All winter the skinny branches, dendrite-dense, scratched the dry air. All winter the trees were naked neurons, buzzing softly, just shy of hearing, popping and crackling, lifting the hair on my arms. All these synapses firing, from tree to tree to tree, but no reflex movement, no flexed muscle, no spasming limb. All that electric sensitivity and no ability to express. Or is that wrong? Is it that on some plane beyond sense these trees, analogues to the axons inside us, most sensitive when winter-dead, their nerves bare to the air -- on some plane do they twitch and seize and flex and jump? We don't intersect with this plane. If we did, the part of our minds which extended just enough into it to witness this private act would be branch-lashed to bloody blindness.
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