BY JAMES GRINWIS
PROSE POEM FOR THE END OF TIME
The clock at 3 a.m. still ticks. Many wend their way through an empty station. One may forget the import of such events, though they are always happening. Someone is eating shepherds pie, and another is anxious. A foal has gone missing. Stuff can be pressed onto us, like an irritated perfume thick enough to bend trees. In a white and blank space, there is a ring of trees. If they sing or do not depends. Pulling an escalator up from its casing. If the earth is like an escalator being pulled up.
PROSE POEM FOR THE BEGINNING OF TIME
The escalator of the earth leads straight down. The casing of the earth inhales the escalator. A ring of trees rend a song up in a white space that releases a thick ooze of breath. A foal is born, someone is pulling up husks. One may remember the importance of an event, one may be anxious looking out to sea. A station is crowded and one may be stuck. The clock at 3 a.m starts ticking.