Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-eight
Summer 2015
Ian C. Williams

Hush, silent now—
      pull your hair back and gather it in
      like rain water. Prepare yourself
for another day.

Shoulder the highways and bear them back:
      Interstate eighty, westward                 but
        where does it go?

Not knowing may be better.

Withhold the rolling orography behind
      your eyes. A rail stands guard
      against off-road exploration. Stay
on this path, on the right side

of the yellow stitches sewn into asphalt.

Let this listless city melt
      around you—we do; we
      feel fine. Anchor yourself
solidly aground.

Quiet, quiet—
      are you telling me a secret?
        am I doing something wrong?

The city says, “You are!”       I don’t
        know what to believe.

      You are, you are—the cycle a cadence.
Hold your shutter-lips closed—acceptance

doesn’t sting like giving

About Ian C. Williams

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