cold spring

By Tohm Bakelas

throwing rocks at the sun
never mattered anyway,
you could never come close
to hitting it

the bones of the typewriter 
covered in dust
rests upon a table 
rarely touched

there are no horses here,
no horses you can 
see anyway

trains come and go
and our limbs settle
for this


Tohm Bakelas is a social worker in a psychiatric hospital. He was born in New Jersey, resides there, and will die there. His poems have appeared in numerous journals, zines, and online publications. He has published 10 chapbooks. He runs Between Shadows Press.

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