Ian spends most of his time wishing he could fly, and the rest writing and working. His poems can be found in Cairn, em:me, The Fine Line, and Mistletoe Madness: An Anthology of Christmas Poems. He lives down south with his wife and cat.
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I’ve tried to explain black holes before bed, in cold
electric nightlight. I traced the lines, the plane of your Henley
shirt showing the dips, gravity, never truly touching,
just grazing the infinite space of air and atoms that
hold our hands, but I would still move air and pressure,
math and physics, all over you, holding so firm that a singularity
forms as we were before there was dust, and we stretch
infinitely through all kinds of time; sickness, health, Greenwich Mean.
Matt — the Matt you never met — wants to be placed in a lawn chair
up on a hill to decompose. And when the crows scatter, the angry
crows that sound like German — that’s where anger comes
from — the neighborhood kids would come by and poke
him with whatever the spring grass hides. Then the crows
caught in daylight would form little dark stars and we’d wish
on those stars that our wishes would stop coming true.
© Ian Wallace