Peter Stuhlmann

Stepping On The Cracks

That winter in Hamburg,
my fourteenth,
you were a leaf in mid-air.
Your good eye
(the other recently dead
from stroke) already gazed
beyond, toward the earth
opening her soft mouth.

Afternoons walking, you listed
your regrets, the words thick
on your unresponsive tongue.

I was watching the sidewalk,
being careful
not to step on the cracks.


Under the Cataract Moon

a man reaches into the
inside pocket of his jacket
and produces a crumpled photograph
    of himself dancing
for the night and anyone
who will

look: he cries
this is in fact me!
I have substance,
I am something,
I can be touched!

And for that instant
he is not afraid:
       of the boneless hand of time,
       of the moon's dark inventories,
       of the murderous silent all.


Peter Stuhlmann writes: In writing I attempt chiefly to reach for an authentic dialogue with the world I find myself in. My home is currently in Ottawa Canada.


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