Tag Archives: escape


A door seldom opens in the late Tuesday clouds
Up here in the tower.

None of us have wings, for all our celestial perceptions.

I want to fall backwards out of this life
into the city.

I have a white bag filled with tissue paper.

I don’t mind leaving nothing behind.

Take me to the silver doors,
with one last look at my reflection,
I will escape clueless
into the alley,
befriended by a tortoiseshell cat.

I want to fall backward out of this life.

There is a place that I will make waiting.
The sidewalk will crumble behind me.

I will no longer be the legs ascending the opera stairs
ahead of you, no longer the complacent shoulder.
No longer the pieces you think
you put together.

I have earned this small violence.

Copyright Kay Winter

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Wild Garden

The white roses grow wild
in the garden
season after
neglected season.

The moonflower
reseeds itself in
the cracks of the flagstone path
and the black ivy creeps across the patio
and up the walls of the white house.

A woman’s pale face watches
from the dark windows,
keeping watch.

One summer morning,
when the house and the garden
have become the same green barrow.

She strips off the black dress.
Tears the white veil.
Tears the black veil.

Rips the vine
from the door,
from the back gate,
and walks naked
into the summer fields.

– Copyright Kay Winter

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Road Time

Where I started that night left the ring of the day behind.
Awake all night through
windings of roads and headlights flashing by,
solitary distant lights of farms hovering, then fading past.

One stop, waiting in the darkness for the stars to fall,
one by broken one from the Dakota sky,
but they did not.

I drove on.
Distance collapsing into time.
And time arriving with me to the peculiar brown dawn of dust.
And then the dust giving way to juniper
and a blue streak of river.

And though you, and the next blank line ask me,
I cannot speak the why of it.
Only this, distance collapsed into time,
and I moved with it.

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