Keith Taylor



There must be a history
of collisions here, twisted ankles,
broken bones, headaches
and nose bleeds. Frostbite.
Maybe even something worse.

But all that lingers
while we melt into spring—

other than lost mittens
and piles of frozen dog-shit
rising into the light—

are fading squeals, almost breathless,          
and the overconfident commands
of parents about to release
their toboggans and their heirs
to the forces pointed only downhill—

all barely
an echo in the air, laughter
and the possibilities of delight.






I've been trying to write a chapbook length manuscript of short poems that will all be done while I'm on my neighborhood walk. En plein air, almost. The process keeps me focussed at a difficult historical moment, sure, but it's also a lot of fun. I'm going to call the chapbook Ecstatic Destinations.