Liane Tyrrel

You Can’t Even Imagine

There is a small door or if not a door
than an opening. I have to stoop down
to enter. It’s what it does to the body
or to the body in the mind and at the
threshold something happens.
There may be blue or there may be
buzzing or just a sort of silence. There is
an opening of what we call land or
when your eyes open think of eyes
opening onto a scene, first a field,
this unfolding weather, matter and
in all directions something called light
(tree limb cracks in the distance and
the imagined falling). You can’t separate
the light from the thing it falls on. You can’t
possibly see all the things it falls on.

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Liane Tyrrel is a visual artist and poet. Her poems have been included or are forthcoming in: EcoTheo, JMWW, InkSounds and more. She lives and walks with her dog in the woods and fields of NH.