Iron, Awake

By Wes Solether

The mud might swallow our shoes,  

and that’s ok, because we don’t need shoes  

with the mud smooching our toes.

I wonder how many bones we trample  

as we progress through the woods,  

the dinosaurs and early humans,

in some macabre, historically inaccurate diorama,

must look up at us and wish for more catastrophes.

And somewhere nearby a deal is being made  

with all the Santa effigies and coal-eyed snowmen  

that we’ll push back the calendar  

and make it snow, make it snow all year long.

Walk with me across the plain

as we observe the grass die

and the musicians keen their legs

while eulogists’ little lights send out their reports  

and trickle us towards the copse and clearing

as if saying, “You have arrived at your destination.”  

Make sure to hide this behind a photo:

I want ‘I love you’ to mean something,

and that’s a secret for us to keep to ourselves.