Benjamin Steiner


Dusk: The crust encloses the day.
Spirals sight in one giant spool.
As if the pupil liberated from the eye.
Like a living yarn, knits a curtain of shadows.
Perhaps they were stitched to the brain?
Visionís fulcrum seesaws in the skull.
And sways rhythmically, a symphony of lights.
Night: Atrophy at an optical hinge.
Like the last black dot:
A period without words.
Falls from sight on an invisible page.


A cascade of breath is never far behind.
A warm wash of water.
Flows, spiraling down its bed.
Or a geometry of rest.
Shifts one shoulder to another.
Pauses to drool.
As if to mimic the rain.
In fits and starts.
The breath drops anchor.
But is never quite docked.
Such is the wind.
Posing and poses as our own.
Or alerts us of such: Winded.
Beneath layers of sleep.
Topple, collapsing in daylight.
Triggers a present:
A seemingly endless cycle of persons.
That is to say, tense.
Or what being actually is.
Never once came up for air:
An interminable pulse of breath.


A wetness appears on wood.
Perhaps a tree cries.
Or comes clean in rain.
Spraying and sprays a landscape.
Or lends symmetry:
Phone wires water-slick.
Span and stretch, pole-to-pole.
Between an invisible horizon:
Or where one goes.
Where one is going.
A wet, black sidewalk.
Clouds blend in liquid night.
Funnels to open street.
A succession of drips.
Or unfolding steps:
Puddles ripple and spread from below.

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