By Christopher Bernard
The afternoon lies across the air
like a page of ice,
dazzling and shadowless.
You walk across it,
through it, beneath it,
looking for a crack in the light,
trying, without success, to hide.
The eyes you meet are gray as ashes.
The words you hear disappear like clouds.
A scarf lies abandoned on a curb.
Somewhere there is the sea,
a party’s laughter, and someone is singing,
and summer holds the night in its arms.
But not here, and not now.
You scratch on the ice a forgotten name for spring.
Christopher Bernard has published two volumes of poetry: The Rose Shipwreck and Chien Lunatique. He is co-editor of the webzine Caveat Lector.