Glass Poetry Press

Volume Two Issue One

Charles Rafferty


As with failed love affairs and night traffic accidents, the explosion must have grown more beautiful with distance: the musical rumble the Pacific might have heard, the dust knocked into the sunrise and deepening its color, the glow of the fires persisting — a disaster that could light a lover's face if there were such a thing as love fifty thousand years ago. Seen from the air, the Barringer crater is a dimple, a divot, a scoop taken out of the desert as if it were somebody's sandbox. But here on the lip of the catastrophe, the shattered and scattered bedrock is proof that the sky is closer than we thought. It makes us look more haltingly into the night above our homes — full of grocery lists and longing and gigantic TVs. We should live each day as if something were falling hopelessly onto our heads, as if something were approaching that knew how to follow no matter how fast we run.