white ice white sky white hills and Jake
slurring on about all the bullets
that have entered our lives
II
the whole county’s socked in
the old floods
thought they ought to come back
every couple weeks as mist
visibility is down to a quarter mile
so even though we’re parked
up the road we can pretend
the world is the square mile of it we can see
III
get the bullet at the right angle
you hear it tumble through the ice and skip up
underneath to knock on it some more
–it sounds like television static
the fact is it’s beautiful
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 4.
Jackson Holbert’s work has appeared in Thrush, Minnesota Review, BOAAT, and Radar Poetry, among others. He is currently an undergraduate at Brandeis University.
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