On faith
By Jackson Smith
Some days, I fear that I live in a world
where everything is or will one day become
a strip mall. Titanic tongues of asphalt
haunt my dreams, vast barren deserts
like alien moons. I’ll awaken, I fear,
on the side of a highway, my only companions
the jaggy-toothed frames and old rusty wheels
of cars long wrecked. I dream of houses
and houses, in rows, in neat cul-de-sacs,
encircled by lawns and gates, all hungering
lips. Some days, I fear that I live in
a concrete maw that will one day decide
to swallow me whole on a whim, to grind
my bones into uniform, divine pavement.
To Autumn
by Jackson Smith
Blood in the body,
Bones in the barrow —
Leaves in the thicket,
Dirt in the harrow;
Rot for the picking,
Chills on the breeze —
Beasts in the hollows,
Withering trees;
Flesh for the feasting,
Light in the eyes —
Time-clutching branches,
Darkening skies;
Raving like madmen,
Ruling the day —
Gone in an instant,
Fading away.