John Martin

laughing through grad school
(academic stuff) (hints of life beyond
school and work)
(Flying Moose videos, photos, stories, etc.) (observations)


I keep thinking about time,
the walk softening beneath
logical steps, stepped again.
Cracks and fissures grow
slowly under the pressure
of four feet, stomping
into view where we, two,
carved wet initials.
Our feet don't notice yet
but lies can't hide tales told,
eyes falling, following Alice
into bold sidewalk cracks,
searching hurried rabbits,
for tea, where monsters
dig fantastic holes—and steal away.
Winters freeze and thaw
and soon enough weeds
grow a wild world between
false rock. And if we kill or pull,
will an ocean of mud, like continents
form, and will we drift apart or
merely sink, Atlantis, begging
better times, spawning legends?
I keep thinking about time,
and know no seismic fault
in our vows cast clear for life,
under infinite sun. I wonder
if we scratched love too deep,
or was the mix brittle—sand and lime
too quickly cured? I doubt, sometimes,
the sincerity of wet cement.
There must be a polymer to trust,
advanced as space, a compound
costing more than souls, we might
have used. But what did we know,
two fools, of fantasy and flowers
of patience and trust, forgiveness,
or of anything beyond love and concrete.

-john martin 1998