Witness. The way stretches out there like a causeway or something inundated with a hint of the cosmic or sacrosanct. If ours is not a great Providence or fate, one gets the feeling whilst going along there that all is fine anyhow. There are miles and miles of open spaces and the sky turns orange and red and pink before some blue threatens to overtake it and sink it all down into night. But for long seconds there its pure magic. Give the literati to the literati. It does not matter. We saw the sky there and the long long long stretch of horizon line. The old town where the police caught the speeders and sent them up to the courts. Oh, how to ruin a summer’s day! But that was twenty years ago. There are other towns all ‘round the way. All ‘round the world in point of fact. Tombstones, bricks, silos, and dreams. Women with curt and sure sweaters and a bit of a glimmer in the eye still. Sometime the snow will fall and make the lands white, and at other times when summer is in full-bloom, say robust in August you know, – and the Willows and Oaks and Pines, the feral shrubs and little creeks and rivers all aglow. Lush, verdant, verdant, verdant. For the time, the way stretches out and the sun goes down like a red neon beet into a secretly sewn hole in the earth somewhere. That is the way and no matter what comes we saw it and saw it well. Witness.
Brian Michael Barbeito is a Canadian poet. He is published this year at CV2 The Canadian Journal of Contemporary Poetry and Critical Writing, and has work forthcoming at Fiction International Magazine. He is the author of Chalk Lines (FowlPox Press, 2013).