Fall 2009 / Issues / Poetry 2009 / Volume 40

Close the Door — Richard Malan

Running or thinking. Another phone booth disappears.

Abridge between two ideas an empty room, the bed

unmade. The room smaller than he remembered, half pink,

stationary, the word bark on the dog’s mouth. Headlights

circling in the sky. They woke him up. Time to go. Down

to the station. The hospital. Bail him out. Run around town.

Language is another expression. Light snow falling. Heavy

wet snow in the nature of voice. Healing is normal and natural.

Get the fear out of the way. Close the door, iron your pants.

The earth is humming. Breathing in, breathing out.

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