The first person to touch the fabric
Fell into a crystal sway of capture,
Held still by its ice.
Then the next, then the next.
All told, hundreds gripped it
Before realizing to handle with care.
Now the fabric rests behind a curtain,
Carried there delicately
By outstretched arms.
To destroy the fabric would be impossible.
Every now and then a child or an old
Person with forgetfulness still stumbles in
And has to be unfrozen again.
He’s got the shades,
Of course, the dark armor
Underneath a long ebony coat.
He brings the night with him,
Even at the beach.
A sudden tempest, the pasty
Sunbathers buried in shadow.
He can’t help it, it’s his power,
It’s his art, the swirling of chocolate
Thick evening comes with his passing.
He hasn’t seen the sun in years,
And though tough, cries for its blazing
We began to walk earnestly enough,
Then were pricked by thorns.
Stung by the occasional bee.
We were ready to head back, but the vines
Would now allow it.
So we trudge on endlessly, occasionally
Sustained by some twigs, a bit of fruit,
Skin stinging with disobedience
To those who told us never to venture
JD DeHart is the author of the chapbook, The Truth About Snails. He is a staff writer for Verse-Virtual and his blog is jddehart.blogspot.com.