By Jim Richards

Back to the world,

eyes to the fiery core,

hand at the curtain of clay,

and ear to the door.

A slow journey, dark.

A seeping, really, slow.

Not step by frozen step,

but drip by drip I go.

No box to nail me in.

No balm to keep me fresh.

A faster, fetid form

to speed my running rest.

May enemies discover,

if they disturb my land,

a vanished soul’s impression,

a shadow made of sand.

Jim Richards poems have been nominated for Best New Poets 2015, two Pushcart Prizes, and have appeared recently in Prairie Schooner, South Carolina Review, Juked, Comstock Review, Poet Lore, Texas Review, among others. He lives in eastern Idaho’s Snake River valley, and in 2013 he received a fellowship from the Idaho Commission on the Arts.

To read more of his work visit www.jim-richards.com.