Max Dahlquist

The fading light painted your face
in colors that don't have names
but I kept my silence
because there was nothing I could say
...

Your brother was a six-year old saboteur


skulking under a mattress
...

I love snowflakes
because they're symmetrical
and unique
and frigid with disinterest
...

The world is stationary,
a sunrise over evergreens.

I’m awake
...

I told her that I know everything.

I don’t, but I know some things,
like two and two isn’t five
...

Bleary-eyed and restless
strangers sit shoulder to shoulder
silently awaiting homecoming
or escape to parts unknown
...

The wind breathes deeper every day
a gentle rustling
on the tips of wavering leaves
steadily increases
...

Once we got outside of town, the stars grew and multiplied; scattered pinpricks of soft light became mercilessly brilliant holes in the blackness. We drove until the road burrowed into the trees and became organic, caressing the contours of the hillsides, making furtive climbs, then diving back into the valleys, the van shuddering over potholes. Branches stretched above up, frozen in mid-reach, waiting for our attention to lapse so they could reach out and make us disappear, drowning out the glow of the frail waning moon, casting everything as a silhouette.

Let me take your hand
Summer is cold and distant
...