Thursday 5 February 2015

4 Poems by Ada Fetters

Glass Percussion

I thought it was music
on a crowded street.
It was a glass bottle
rolling down the pavement.

Running From, Not To

Out of the suburbs
In a minivan
Losing his hair
He brakes for no one


He worked on the new chapter
on the porch
in the pre-storm gloom.
Leaves skittered across the gravel drive
They sounded like applause
or footsteps
or the rasping breath of the undead.
The writer looked at the dark,
his eyes full of light
from his screen.
Then he put on his glasses.
He still saw nothing,
but now he saw it clearly.

Tightrope Artist

They rarely look at me
a lonely figure on an indifferent height
they point to the height itself
or to their thought of me falling
pale limbs scattered through the air.
As I overcome their disbelief
they point to my performance
the skill it takes to remain
balanced in a shaft of light.
When I finally fell, they looked away
from the rope-shadow slicing the ground.

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