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Geoff Collins

Phone Call, 3 a.m.

If you’ve ever followed a darkened path

curving narrow through some woods

perhaps you’ve also dreamed an arrow

released from a bow, how it arcs across

the sky, reaching, reaching, as if endless.

In this dream, other trails lead away

from the looming trees into wheatfields

with thrushes winging, but you keep

creeping back into undergrowth, as if moss

and shadows could solve everything.

The motorbike, as it flew through that warm

metallic night, didn’t know where it went

or that the road it was following would

carry it to an edge where the curve came

too quickly and the arrow returned to earth.

Even those witnesses in the final miles

failed to grasp what they saw—the silent stones

the gnarled blackhaw, the whispering grass.

Friend, what makes you think you could have

foreseen the deep anguish of that night?

About the Author

Geoff Collins writes in the early mornings and late evenings, because most days, that’s all that’s left. His fiction and poetry have recently appeared in Blue Earth Review, Whitefish Review, Interim, Stone Highway, Ponder Review, Red Flag, Bookends Review, and others.

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