Wonderland






Black, cold, narrow
as a grave,
I didn't see the hole —
didn't look before I stepped
    down.
    Long, long I fell

past shards
empty as plastic
champagne glasses,
past deflated balloons
pink and yellow,
past a magician's
empty black hat
dead rabbit,
    curiouser
        and curiouser.

Past the touch of your lips
brushing my neck —
a silver moth in flames,
onto barren lunar landscape
I stopped.

And Alice,
    it's true what they say
        it's not the fall
            that kills you.





(pub. in AMERICAN POETRY MONTHLY, and on-line in FLASHQUAKE)






E-mail: carolb@selco.lib.mn.us

Back to Poetry Page
[Back to top]