tyler bigney

Passing Time

This morning I hiked the trail
behind my house, my sneakers breaking
the snow, white, then mud, then white.
I couldn’t count the number of blackbirds
in the high branches of maples, or
the blue-jays fluttering from one tree
to the next. There wasn’t one bad thought
in my head, my heart free from ache.
I sleep more, suffer never, counting down
the days, sometimes the hours, until
I am over the moon, over the ocean, landing
on my feet five thousand miles away –
the streets carved from cobblestone, and
my heart like the blue-jay I spoke of –
one place to another, back and forth
in my chest, never staying still.

Music

Up all night in Moscow, a quart of vodka,
ripe limes, a bottle of cheap coke. For
one night the world stood still, and we
walked on air. If there was rain, I didn’t
feel it. And if there was, it wasn’t a metaphor
for my sadness. There was no sadness, and
if there was, it wasn’t holding me hostage,
in a bedroom with dim lighting, low
music. There was music, but you couldn’t hear it.
You felt it, here and there. Everywhere.

Tyler Bigney lives and writes in Nova Scotia, Canada. His poetry and fiction have appeared in Pearl, The Meadow, Neon, Poetry New Zealand, and The Ottawa Arts Review, among others.

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