Being Alive

by Chase Ferree

I imagine depth where it isn’t—

a screen where a man


opens his mouth so wide

that it becomes a cavern


of flesh arced like a cathedral,

letting escape a sound so clear


it’s as though his larynx

captured the sound of a bell 


after it’s rung, after someone

tells him, “that’s the explosion, 


the flower bursting.” How we tend

to put sound in visual terms 


glistening or effervescent.

I guess I want something beyond


the knowledge that glass

is ever falling, each pane older


than the last. Yet in the hour before 

it sets there is so much the sun can do, 


even from one stand of trees 

to the next. I look up in those moments 


at monumental clouds, wondering 

how it might feel inside, 


among the water, the light, 

and the tender arrival of thunder.



Chase Ferree (he/him) is a teacher in Seattle. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Peripheries Journal, Horse Egg Literary, perhappened, and elsewhere. You can find him on Twitter @freechasetoday.



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