Just Like That
The page of the day turned,
and the letters were unfamiliar;
weren’t words,
which was frightening, but freeing,
having to start completely over
with language as scape,
as landscape is shape; as universe
is lost, for want of a shape,
its form adrift, a drift
abuzz at small, apart at large,
or size was never the correct term
if found isn’t a real or lasting option;
if the sunset pic
looks sideways on your phone
or in your memory, should we pause
from thinking this is wrong;
from horizon to self-portrait;
from sun-up to moon-down:
those apparent, parent motions;
those two fools, gold and silver
light; light and light alone.
Christopher Phelps is a queer, neurodivergent poet living in Santa Fe where he teaches math and letteral arts. He is searching for others who believe poetry can be equal parts vulnerable and subversive. His poems have appeared in Poetry Magazine, Palette Poetry, Beloit Poetry Journal, The Kenyon Review, Zoeglossia, and The Nation. A chapbook, Tremblem, was semi-privately printed in 2018. Details can be found at www.christopher-phelps.com/poetry.