Glass Poetry Press

Volume One Issue Two

Dan Nowak

A Return to the Past After History Failed Me

McGrath, Whitman is no use. I am not sexy enough in the dark. I have listened ‒ song of myself, may not be for me ‒ am I so invisible? Am I stuck in your fifth season without crops, without a physical labor? My bones want to work and you leave no directions. This air is supposed to stink of revolution, of burnt ground and charred Armani suits. Give me a sign, a frost white star, anything on how to start making the rich feel closer to the earth. I dream I am a corpse, but less only to feel my dreams? Tell me Tom where is the honor for living dead? When can these lands sew a new flag?