We are all builders
in time, hiding
our common speed
like a secret,
embracing even movement
in its motionlessness,
eyes upon the wing of a bird,
renewing ourselves from within,
thinking touching is possible,
waiting for a miracle
before the wind seizes us
and turns us over.
our common speed
like a secret,
embracing even movement
in its motionlessness,
eyes upon the wing of a bird,
renewing ourselves from within,
thinking touching is possible,
waiting for a miracle
before the wind seizes us
and turns us over.
Every Day is One
Every day is one
less something Mother would say:
focus on accomplishment.
Father would say: focus
on the pleasure
that comes from flowing
like clear water in spring thaw
neither calm nor frantic.
less something Mother would say:
focus on accomplishment.
Father would say: focus
on the pleasure
that comes from flowing
like clear water in spring thaw
neither calm nor frantic.
Few Things
It takes courage to live
while looking the world
in the eye. To not bend
so far over the precipice
of conclusion or to avoid
entirely the consternation
of doubt. Few things,
if any, have one side.
And even those can slip,
flip, one belief at a time
or all at once.
while looking the world
in the eye. To not bend
so far over the precipice
of conclusion or to avoid
entirely the consternation
of doubt. Few things,
if any, have one side.
And even those can slip,
flip, one belief at a time
or all at once.
distance after the sky falls
How do you know who you really used to be?. The look back is a glance through cracked ice, reflection sending dazzle and shadow into your eyes. Any encounter is told with another voice in a timbre filled with wisp and tale. Beneath the ice, your lost Atlantis. You want to discover streets you missed, rooms you didn’t find; want to punctuate prior hesitations with action instead of drear time. The girl you meet in the doorway might be you. Part of her waiting, part of her rushing ahead. Which part to ask—but look, there’s yet another, trembling to be noticed. An abstract sensation branches from her tongue, takes the form of words, parts the cracks in ice.
In a Redo
I would dip my palms into the river
between your eyes, would surrender
my rainbow dress, would walk
away groggy and content
or inhabit my welcome longer.
I would linger inside the circle
of our long night’s moon, cast my eye
toward the reachable prize,
keep you always as my own,
if not my only.
between your eyes, would surrender
my rainbow dress, would walk
away groggy and content
or inhabit my welcome longer.
I would linger inside the circle
of our long night’s moon, cast my eye
toward the reachable prize,
keep you always as my own,
if not my only.
Karen Neuberg’s most recent chapbook is Myself Taking Stage (Finishing Line Press). Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Hermeneutic Chaos, Really System, S/tick, and elsewhere. She’s associate editor of the on-line journal First Literary Review-East and lives in Brooklyn, NY.
