losing our grip on purpose

Tim Moder

I got the text. Come to the 5th floor of Enger Tower. Just

you. After climbing ninety season-smoothed spiral steps,

I see him bracing against the cold, imposing hand-hewn

wall. He’s got a three-day growth, his eyes are full of

sorrow, dirty feet in dirty snow. He’s mumbling to himself

about wine in broken vessels. He’s shaking his head. He

does not see me. I say, christ, Jesus. I stare through open

window apertures, part of an apathetic hillside watching

the city. Trees below are tied in shrouds, arms crossed

with frost. I think we’ll be here all night. He’s attuned

to some wretched rhythm, rocking back and forth. As

 take my next long drag, he starts singing Springsteen,

Darkness on the Edge of Town.

Tim Moder is a poet from northern Wisconsin. He is an enrolled member of The Bad River Band of Lake Superior Chippewa. His poems have appeared in Denver Quarterly, Cutthroat, South Florida Poetry Journal, Sho, One Art, and others. He is the author of the chapbooks American Parade Routes (Seven Kitchens), and The Angel of Coincidence (Inkfish). 

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