|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
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
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