Thresholds
Our shadows stretch as tall as pines.
The energy of the day slowly dissipates.
We’re searching the rooms of ourselves
for one more mirror to mistake for a window.
Every threshold is a fulcrum.
We tip to one side and night descends
like the thirsty into a dry riverbed.
We lean to the other side and the sun
continues to burn so bright it siphons
all of the air from us. We’re unbalanced,
fitful moths, one wing dipped in cast iron,
the other fragile velvet, wavering
like grass before the edge of a wildfire.
Dane Hamann works as an editor for a textbook publisher in the southwest suburbs of Chicago. He received his MFA in Creative Writing from Northwestern University, after which he served as the poetry editor of TriQuarterly for over five years. His chapbook Q&A was published by Sutra Press.