Brian Randall

I imagine myself walking a long, arrowshot road,
little more than two ruts in the dirt,
to your house
clouds above, an endless herd of them stampeding
across the sky

In the doorway you squint at me, critical
face a lopsided moon, all trenches
running toward one good eye

We sit at the table, there is sunlight on it
talk about nothing in particular
birds, maybe
the ocean, which is so far from us

Maybe I stay until nightfall
leave under an aching windmill of galaxies
the glow of your cigarette in the distance
a final stray star

But no- you are dead
last year taking your final lungful
of thunder and sky
and breathing out your spirit

If time folds in and out upon itself
like an accordion
like a wolf’s lung
-perhaps somewhere we will overlap

Brian Randall

My well has run dry 
lean over it and you will smell 
only old air 
lower your cup 
and it will come up heavy 
with silt 
and maybe some old things- 
coins, jewelry,  
a child’s toy- lost, 
but no longer sought

Author’s Commentary: "For Jim Harrison" is a poem about knowing somebody through the ghost of their words.

"Well" is a poem about emptiness.

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Brian Randall is a poet and writer living in Santa Cruz, California. His poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Rust+Moth, Jelly Bucket, and Dime Show Review.  Find more of his work at