Lifting my head
above a wall
to peek at a Drive In Movie,
I grab a wire,
discovering
pain in my fist.
As I crawl under a fence
to visit cows, my
consciousness
is pushed down
through the top of my head,
the pasture forced
into a dream.
From an ink brush,
the Zen master draws
the paper’s
electricity,
but we only see
his blank eyes
as he pushes through.
We only hear the rip.
The formatting for this poem may not be accurate on small screens, so a PDF version is available.
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Donald Zirilli (he/him) was a James Tate Prize finalist and a nominee for Best of the Net and the Forward Prize. He edited Now Culture and The Rutherford Red Wheelbarrow and judged poetry for the NJ Teen Arts Festival. His poetry was published in The 2River View, Anti- poetry magazine, ART TIMES, Nerve Lantern, Posit, River Styx, and other periodicals and anthologies. He and his wife live in an idyllic corner of New Jersey with two dogs and a cat. His chapbook, Heaven’s Not For You, was published in 2018 by Kelsay Books. zirealism.com