Don Bogen


The edge is something you can’t see across

Burnt-out refineries on the rim of a winter city

Trainyards, coal piles, empty pre-fab warehouses

No people but a clutter of abandonment

Against a straight blank sky

Fixed now, pointed toward abstraction, the scene waits

You stare at what you’ve made and keep seeing more

White space mirrors a mind of ice

Snow only suggests the distances and threats

© 2005 Electronic Poetry Review