Almost Alive

by Daniel Arenson

This poem was first published in the Harrow in 2006.




The prophet crowns the hill

stands among this copse of birches

golden white

staring down upon the sea



I remember his eyes in his wound.

Like upholstery pushing out an old sofa’s tatters,

his flesh pushed out from lacerations

Bubbling, almost alive.



I remember her jaw on some red stalk

And I remember he who lives

who spent years among these green walls

who spent years

almost alive



And I see myself with you

forever removed from it

while those we left behind still push out of tatters.

Forever joyful are we here

almost able to forget

almost escaping

almost alive






Copyright ©  Daniel Arenson