Matthew Rohrer

MORNING RUN

I was bending down to stretch in frozen grass.

Everyone seemed outraged by a joke.

They had enacted a Blasphemy Law we were just hearing about.

My legs were tight and cold, it was November.

I stood up, and breathed in, and ran up a hill.

Everyone lounged around in pajamas adding their names to petitions online.

I noticed a pattern as the trees turned color.

Some people stopped running to take a picture.

A hoarfrost be-denimed the macadam.

JOAN OF ARC

I always knew the garden was filled with spirits.

I left a seashell of wine there as an offering.

Please protect my house when I am away.

For I will always wander toward the edge into the dusk.

The riot of colors is a comfort

but I am drawn a little to the fence.

THE STORY APPROACHES

I think the trees

are listening to us

clanking

I put on

the hat that makes me

happiest

and I sleep beneath it

all the while a story

slowly approaches

deep in a dream

I am crossing

a footbridge

and I can feel it coming

and I plug my ears

I don’t want to hear the ending

where the old friend dies