Thomas Leonard
Maryland, United States
There is little air
between levels,
little sight beyond the light
bounding living space,
a flight of possibilities
fallen like sky shards
deep in this crevasse to lie.
Low ebb about the ankles
the potentials have melted,
all that could have been
washes out like driftwood –
beautiful, blanched, airy
lovely to glance at, then toss
back into the rising froth.
The way up appears locked:
cold-painted cinderblock and
steel doors apprehend
hands reaching dark walls
to find clammy guardrails
ringing with others’ thoughts:
“Make do with what you have.”
Above the flotsam haze
somewhere rises
a boy swimming in
untrammeled air
lifting ages past
from a narrow well
in long upward drafts.
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