Come slip between atmospheres of memory.
Knead yourself into cumulusâ€”your airline ticket,
your pushbike, your liahonaâ€”with fingers like
the fingers of DorÃ©â€™s sun. Sift marrow
until you feel soil part, feel the fern press its head
through mist then flatten against sudden emptiness.
Until you can roam sky without tripping on Godâ€™s
hem, can cloak in light
without singeing every shadow to ash, without
blinding yourself as you trace the cloudfire to dusk.
Tyler Chadwick lives in Pocatello, Idaho, with his wife, Jessica, and their four daughters. His poems have appeared in Metaphor, Dialogue, Irreantum, Salome, Black Rock & Sage, Wilderness Interface Zone, and The Victorian Violet Press Poetry Journal. In 2009, he received the Ford Swetnam Poetry Prize and in 2010 he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He’s also editor of the forthcoming anthology from Peculiar Pages Press, Fire in the Pasture: 21st Century Mormon Poets
. He blogs at chasing the long white cloud
To read more of Tyler’s poetry on WIZ, go here, here, here, here, and here.