Crown of Thorns

And the nails,
touching the flesh but not
piercing. Like flies. What
cannot be swept away (the
tears, the lack of blood, the ease
with which the body might
break open, like a dry
seed pod). In my room, an accumulation
of unread mail. Sound of water
dripping from the tap downstairs—a hollow
resonance between my ears. Each morning
I study the small rips in the yellowed
windowshade. Rivers drying up under
an indifferent sun. If my hand reaches out, what
will it find? Night after night I dream
of food, but I never eat. And I wake
always to a faint buzzing of flies.

Wormhole

A thin, uncertain snow
dusting the yard
this morning. And chilly
indoors. Did I tell you
that I am dead already? that these
dreams are only proof
of an overactive
imagination? Stand here, at the bottom
of the stairs, place
both hands on the railings. Now hunch
forward slightly, as if leaning into
the wind. See how the whole house
becomes your ship? how you find
the will to face the weather? Go
ahead; my body is already here,
where I left it, leaning in,
inventing a future.

Dan Lewis Lives on the edge of the Patch Reservoir in Worcester, MA. Winner of the 2012 Frank O’Hara Prize, he is the author of two chapbooks, Tickets for the Broken Year, and Iconospheres, as well as a full-length poetry collection, This Garden. His work has appeared in The Cortland Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, Bombay Gin, Diner, Blue Unicorn, and others.