Panic
The room’s too small. The lights are dim.
A black mouth yawns up lazily.
Voices float like music, long and thin
As kite strings lost in August haze
The black mouth’s languid yawning sings
A bright and distant canticle.
A kite lost in the August haze brings
Voices from some other place. The pull
Of water underfoot. The bright and distant canticles
And thunder waves that wash away the fear
The voice from somewhere else that pulls
The water, sand and faces far, then near
The thunder waves that rush between the ears
Your name comes on a swell, a distant call
A voice that pulls you back from there to here
The lights are dim.
The rooms seems very
very small.
—Peter Sherrill, Forestville, WI
