Short Works for the Peripatetic Web Surfer
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by Michael Gullickson
An oak barrel cracked open
in a field of sage grass,
a home to button mice,
song beetles, pollen ants
an occasion of fleas.
A rusted piece of farm equipment
too weathered to identify
sits in the same field, alone.
I step across a broken fence
looking for signs of life
in the weed crowded field,
looking for signs that you were here.
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by Michael Gullickson
I touched your forehead for the last time,
and willed you to recognize I was there.
They said the ocean of your brain had stilled,
no more waves, rolling to the shore.
That no man or machine,
could ever stir them again.
Choose to disconnect, they said,
let go.
I touched your forehead, for the last time
and made it so.
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