I sleep with the window open

Berkshire County Cafe, August 17th, 2016
Two guys were sitting next to me. I couldn’t help overhearing and enjoying their conversation about strange professors and art. I asked. They deliberated, one out loud, and the other silently, then they both agreed to write. Max is an artist-in-residence at a local college. He works in ceramics. I found this poem very striking and beautiful. Many of us are unsure of whether “reality is growing, or bending.” Here’s Max’s poem, with Alan’s to follow:

I sleep with the window open.
3 a.m. I look out, woken
by a strange hiss.

A red 50’s style truck
sprays a toxic mist to kill
mosquitos. Have I time traveled?

I moved twice this year.
Unsure if reality is growing,
or bending?

Lake weeds grab me as I
swim, snagging, snapping, I
pass. The water is dark
and smells of rotting plants.

I’m carving a path, but
I look to the side, not
forward. Does it matter if
life drifts under our feet or
if our legs make the motion
of walking when we
all end in the same

Read a poem by Mara M.

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