A Short History

Poems by Brett Thibault

The earth, laid spine up
on a cold sill, turned to sheets
of ice. Characters moved to
gutters for warmth, killed for
steam, greased their chins.
They believed fur and feather
could make them fly.

An elegant morning brought
pokered ashes: a promise
of heat: pages crawled with light,
lousy with color. The characters
reappeared at the edges, began
to speak of the second coming
of the thumb.