You are reading Fiddleblack #7
I hear your shoes, hermit, walking in step underneath mine. But you’re the one asleep now, unable to hear me walking in place atop your impervious rock, underneath wherever I step. When I stand in place, I hear your hands searching ground for the fissure uniting us. Each night you break through and enter my body, you snuff my eyes, open zombified, and send me into the night. By now, dear master, I should know your name.
Michael Walsh is the author of The Dirt Riddles, winner of the Miller Williams Prize in Poetry, as well as the Thom Gunn Award for Gay Poetry. His chapbooks include Adam Walking the Garden and Sleepwalks. His poems have appeared in Alaska Quarterly Review, Chattahoochee Review, DIAGRAM, New York Quarterly and other journals.