The End Is the Beginning
All wind travels at an angle
and doesn't need you there,
like a silent nod,
your life pulse a clod scattering an effort of
I wear simple clothes and walk to the store for onions.
The sun is so bright, I can
even look at the concrete.
morning, I won't remember
more than I should about the taste of
the previous day.
I stand in front, like an idea helicoptering the surface of a
cornfield; there is light in my eye, I can see, imprisoned by the
name I give to my body. Coins line my pockets, and I ask you to
see me. There is a haunted grip of the friend who wanted his
thumb pressed to keep it from bleeding into the quicksilver. I
can't do more than I do.
An Editor and Publisher of Tammy since 2009, Thomas Cook has published several chapbooks of poetry and prose. His work has appeared in Bennington Review, Chicago Quarterly Review, Cincinnati Review, New Orleans Review and Quarterly West, among others. He lives in Los Angeles.