THOMAS DOLLBAUM
It comes in the form of small-town shadows, of hard-working people, of decaying motels, of lead-shimmering waters, and canned tall boys left behind on porches where our hearts come so close they could catch fire.
Sometimes you hum the unsayable in a crack of interstate light, in a memory where the trees kickback bare armed and gigantic. Where the clouds stay stuck in concert halls drunk on some sunlight. And you breathe fast, eye the pickup trucks carrying the world into another world. The wind leaning against houses full of people and birds.
Then it’s raining the opposite of holy water. Across the street a stuck-truck-graveyard sky. And our lungs are full of ash or some wet sand you once saved as a souvenir. When you look back you see the season aching with a faraway truth, with a far away.
We pass through life, a forest, a long-distance hallway that could be a train car in some dust covered town. A town where you can hear the ocean translating a distance to the shore. And we can’t say much more than that. We can’t say much more.
WRITTEN BY: NOAH FALCK; POET
AUTHOR OF EXCLUSIONS
WINNER OF THE JAMES TATE POETRY PRIZE
Directed by:
Jeremy Quentin
Filmed by:
John Woerdehoff
Jeremy Quentin
Recorded by:
Laird Scott
Special thanks to:
Natalie Gassman
Nick Riedman
John McDermott