Michael Dumanis

The Fortune

Past the faint latticework
of ghost trees skirmishing
in snowfields mist
has overcome, I drive
myself through postcards
of Vermont, past pyramids
of firewood, vestigial
wells, neat lines of granite
in a plotted square,
each pointed steeple
a foreboding of what’s done,
unwelcome paradox
of prophecy. Mistaking
the hunchbacked gods colluding
along the fringes
of the shrouding haze for mountains,
I book a lifetime
at the Weathervane Motel:
will I enjoy my stay,
or will the gunmetal
shade of this low-hanging sky
stick in my eyes when I close them?
Of the two lanes available
on this unwinding drag, I take the one
that leads, each day, me far from me,
then turn around, arriving every time
at the same door. The future
continues to poll in the margin
of terror. The future remains
unimaginable. I imagine it
blistering with bees, strobing
color and clamor, a child
with an orange balloon
hiding his face, a gargantuan
flower. Asked to recollect
my impressions, alongside
any additional comments
about the exhibition overall,
I find it worth remarking on
the light.