Every move I make is gestured
by a slight prediction:
I go down on my side
and roll up the hill; a cloud
wants me, so another cloud does.
But when I look to their faces I don’t
know them. Like satellites or cousins, their part
is small and dubious in the all-there-was that was
the past: back on that brown lake,
the fisher was the painter, and the rod
the same length as the brush—
the landscape bore upon the silver boat
which, with its small hatch for fish, configured
the thingness of the world—that blue and green
polluted frog, full of magma, soon to croak.
Alec Hershman lives in St. Louis where he teaches marketing psychology and brand management at The Stevens Institute of Business and Arts. He has received awards from the Kimmel-Harding-Nelson Center for the Arts, the Jentel Foundation, The St. Louis Regional Arts Commission, and The Institute for Sustainable Living, Art, and Natural Design. You can find links to more of his work at alechershmanpoetry.com.