Megan Peak

In the time it takes to leave a place, a window remains a window.
Streak-blurred and hard. I wear nothing but light as I purl through.
The room—a soundless punch. Each time I close another drawer.
The heart of me trumpets. As in: all my ghosts have caught fevers.
Now feeding from the crown down. The sky steadily droops around.
The city with its smokestacks and silos. All the bricks here are deep.
Red: cut from another. And when I say I cleared out, I mean suddenly.     
The road became a current my body passed through. Terrible beam.
Glowing as fresh sorrows do. Surely, if I had known the difference.
Between splitting and being split. Yes—if my heart had been a tunnel.




In a haphazard way, I stumbled upon a few time lapse videos and became obsessed. I watched flowers budding, stars swiveling, cities pulsing. I wanted my poem to do what these videos were doing; I wanted my poem to have a kind of torqued speed, to smooth out a string of moments, to flower and become visible in its passage.