by CARY BABCOCK
The green of the north, I find it calling through time. I’ve heard it ask to be seen many occasions before,
but I’m growing closer, older.
It truly sounds absurd, but there are cosmological strings winding us all in some molecular dance. I can
feel it sometimes.
It tells me there are lights behind certain eyes. There you find the feeling. The feeling drives you wild like
gas lamps in a humid city.
Expression burns like hydrogen. It cannot be put out until it dies completely.
And when it dies, it takes all of existence with it.
Blackness, beautiful spatial horizon.
Communication without the criticism.
Love with no expectations.
CARY LEE BABCOCK is a poet and fiction writer from Easton, PA with the chill of Maine winter in his veins. With his BFA in Creative Writing from the University of Maine at Farmington, he has been published through multiple presses such as The Unrorean, The Final Draft, and Serpent Club Press. He is compelled to share his writing to illuminate a new perception of life in a dusty, dark America.