Along the Edge

Along the Edge

by William Doreski

We’re driving along the edge.
Lakes give way to canyons, rivers
pour into giant potholes. glaciers
sprawl like Modigliani nudes.

“This is the end of all endings,”
you claim. Houses tilt and nod,
roofless after the pale windstorm.
Crows prowl the ruins and peck

sustenance from pools of muck.
Turkey vultures perch and gaze.
What do you mean by ending
when clearly it has just begun?

We debate the assonance of “it”
and draw no conclusions. Where
can we find a coherent lunch?
Does any currency still function?

Dazed people peer into the dark
of cracks that swallowed loved ones.
We could stop and offer help
but the shovel in our back seat

is only useful for burials.
It can’t exhume the frightening depths
that opened without the roar
of earthquake or the creak of bones.

The rivers draining themselves flow
around the world before settling
in the stony beds in which we slept
last night, dreaming we were fish.

About the Author

William Doreski grew up in Connecticut and lived in Boston, Cambridge, and Arlington (MA). He taught writing and literature at Keene State College in New Hampshire for 34 years before moving to the wilds of New Hampshire. He has published several collections of poetry and three critical studies.