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.

By Tohm Bakelas

sifting through the wreckage
of her marriage, she sits on 
the front porch as her 
daughter plants zinnias
in the front yard and her 
son dances with sunbeams
between porch spindle shadows

her house is a museum of a former life,
framed pictures mounted on the wall, 
words and memories remain in place,
yet the foundation is gone, it’s long gone

and i see it as I enter into the house,
passing through lives and ghosts alike,
recalling my own inhibitions of change
as I make my way to the toilet, 
unzip and piss, steadying my gait by 
holding the wall and closing my eyes
as I spin between worlds trying to
think of the right things to say:

i settle for nothing but a deep breath
after hearing her footsteps outside the door. 

---

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.