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BRIAN TEARE

The Stairs

i
ridge top the path forks up further to fog or down

to steep crowded terraced clarity lupine and thistle
oystercatchers and black sand tide coats with foam

 

ii
maybe a mind sated with image won’t move
the raccoon must have eaten snails for a half-mile

trail littered with stripped shell brittle as old tin

 

iii
sharp angle down the path long grass underfoot
worn short burnished bronze coarse horse hair

 

iv
for ten feet the path crumbles under the last
slanted stair ends mid-air above beach why

wait to turn distance to metaphor just jump  

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   Contributor’s notes

   The Argument
   The Fire
   The Scab
   The Stairs

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