Glass Poetry Press

Volume Two Issue Two

Clyde Kessler


It is called winter pulled from stars. You can see the ice wings sliding towards your mother's house, clouds like an old willow snagged into shadows, prisoners drifting out from their locked cells. It is called dreaming and nothing else. The horizon falters like a guard shot in the face. The prison collapses into a giant sinkhole. Your mother and father whisper their losses into a mattress that you watch catching fire.