Not light’s version
A child from the past:
We always knew the world
would crack open like this, in our lifetime.
The walls, the fences, the resembling
governments looking past faces into the fire
of maps on the long table. Forest sounds.
A gun. A chemical. A bomb.
Something leaking light. Then, not light.
Then, not light’s version of everything.
Then, that, after it touches something.
Michael Klein is an award-winning poet and author whose poetry collections 1990 and Poets for Life are winners of the Lambda Literary Book Award. He lives in New York City and teaches memoir writing in the summer program at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown.
