(Due to the formatting of this poem, it is best viewed on wider screens.)
Long After My Body Dies, My Soul
Runs Into Rainer Maria Rilke’s Soul
in a Forest Ripe w/Greenery, a Stream
Gurgling, Wildflowers, Two Luscious
Sunbeams Penetrating the Tree Canopy, and
As the present feeling of true love surges and floods downstream past the tree of life, past gods
or governors or whatever it is you find particularly consoling that finds you adequately analeptic
in return—have mercy on the upshot in your chase for pressing truth, for he or she will be there,
come-hither, waiting to lay down, having made his or her own arduous way to listen to music, to
drink wine, to inhale your odd air and experience your lips, to sense delicate petals on fingertips.
A desolate soundscape
fitted with gaskets to
cancel museum noise,
a chamber cocooned in
conical shapes arranged
thrusting long and tall from
the walls, from the ceiling
hanging like stalactites,
rising from the floor with
just enough room to stand
on a steel grate platform.
Senses rapt, our hot brains
shaking down the silence
for sounds that aren’t there.
This penultimate life,
one step closer to the
in the gallery of
destiny, inside which
we won’t be when we are.
Originally from Denver, Brian Robert Flynn is currently breathing the fiction and poetry of Washington, DC. His writing can be found in Clarion, Jelly Bucket, (b)OINK, Five:2:One, and The Moth.