Issue > Poetry
Timothy Ree

Timothy Ree

Timothy Ree lives in Brooklyn, New York, where he teaches literature and writing at a public high school. He holds a BA in English from Wheaton College (IL) and an M.Div from Yale University. He is currently at work on his first manuscript.

Stations


Blood from the showerhead
                                               or rusty water—hard to tell
                       in the early blue.

                                         ·   

On the train
            a man reading a Bible—
                                                  its cover a brown camouflage.

                                         ·    

The blonde who got on tall
                                    at Parkside—with sunglasses,
                       no ring.

                                         ·     

I'm chasing a coffee napkin down the street, past a hydrant
            painted stars and stripes—
                                                       this early, this much to bear.

                                         ·  

Someone this hour, in this city
                                    is just as drunk—puts a lit cigarette
            in his coat pocket.

                                         · 

In the elevator
            to feel like meat in a freezer—soon the flies,
                                                                         the children.

                                         ·    

No—
            the room crowded with squirrels, each one
                                                                         completely still.

                                         ·    

Now a lesson on metaphors: soon
                                                       they will all be mixed—
            I am the gate, you are the branches . . .

                                         ·     

Once on the sidewalk
                                    we were mugged by falling acorn—
            one of us stabbed with a beak.

                                         ·     

There, not the stolen wheel, the fallen chain—
                        but the good frame left hanging
                                                                        on the iron arch.

                                         ·     

In the empty square my way home,
                                   a phone vibrating on a stone chess table—
            sound and riddle of our lives.

                                         ·     

Now for the local
            or the express—the express to the local back
                                                                            one stop.

                                         · 

Someone this hour, in this city
                                                 is kneeling—another
                                                                                     receiving.

                                         ·

To scroll down the glow—
                                                 the list
                                                             of useless names.

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