By Evan Hansen
Birds silently froth the hills
In a dream or film about how
Life is beautiful in some near
Elsewhere. At work all day
I’m like a fly knocking against
An invisibility that holds me—
My fatigue an open marriage
With clear thinking. Children
Shout outside in a language
I once knew. If they are not
Children but birds, how is this
Different. If the hills are really
Waves tingling with rain, and I’m
Turning at mute speed into
The moon’s feeble hands, thread me
With your darkness, already.
Evan Hansen lives in Oakland, California. His work has appeared in such publications as the Burnside Review, Cimarron Review, Cortland Review, Juked, Maggy, et cetera.
