Andrew Furst is a poet, author, Buddhist teacher, photographer, artist, and a technologist. His work has appeared in Poetry Leaves, Platform Review, and Failed Haiku. He self-published his first volume of poetry “Clouds Tell Us: Poetry at the Intersection of Nature and Our Humanity” in 2016. Learn more about Andrew by visiting www.andrewfurst.net
That Time
With 52 there are decades and breath mints and affinities to – the smell of burning earth rolling down your throat – forgetfulness; pills; Bed to car to eyes to ears. resolutions to just reconnect; to dance; with my wife; pictures and writing shit down. Torpor and stupor as god damn legitimate lifestyle options, but getting my ass on a trail. To a waterfall. work on time and back. On time. Skipping the soapbox, as if this ain’t exactly just that. Watching parents die and. Vortexes of coming. Cat litter. Keys. IRAs. Going. White privilege and loathing. Stealing road trips and making checklists. Bitter sights and sweet sounds. Sugar pee tests, colonoscopies, and the god damn word cardio. Making marks and just erasing them.
Immersed
And there was
the day
when I had been drowning
for so long.
Barely breathing,
choosing the struggle.
Then
I looked
at my brother
sleeping
on the cold hard ground
below me.
I would have
marveled
at his ability to float,
If I hadn’t’ve found myself,
feet on the ground.
Breathing.