by Wick Fields
We tend to look back
At the seasons of our lives
And light them warmly
With our remembrance of them.
What we forget is
There was genuine terror then
Just as there will always be genuine terror.
Reflection doesn't haver the burden of fear
We know how it turned out.
This season is another matter altogether.
Oh the flames Whipping wild at city gates In Rome and Beijing and Cleveland Frightening the old Half cold in their graves And surrounding the young Half hung by their age. Oh the flames Lapping low at
by Wick Fields Every night I'm revived From the day's incursions By the language of the dead Because I'll tell you this No army can march Over Raymond Carver's mercy.
by Wick Fields There isn't enough time To express the wholeness of things There is only time To survive the blast.