By Devin Hamilton

The infiltrating cold begs my silence

It means to steal my pink flesh

Display my skeleton

Like the naked branches

Collecting icicles

Abolishing comfort

In favor of survival

Now I ride the pendulum

Between ceremonious snowfalls

Silently layering atop the earth

And enraged blizzards

Slapping my cheeks red

Winter’s voice

An indomitable wind,

howls through the shutters

of the house

‘My love is a lesson,’

She screams

‘But you treat it as an attack.’



It has come to a point

It has come to a point, where writing only happens

if the clock is way past 2

and the neighbors must be sleeping

it has come to a point, that half full wine glasses

seem to stay on the coffee table

just a day or two too long

time has taken me further, I’m older than I can remember

last time I saw myself I still wore a coat, I think it was green

while my music should be playing

for at least a year or three

God, do you remember

the first time I spoke to you

even though I believe

think there’s a place

worse than this

It has come to a point, where we as people

accept our failure, label it as routine

and think that this is what we are

intended to do, all along




It has come to a point

bus poem

Spokane in the middle of the night
The stars
Dim bus light
Brightness all around still burns
Vast, before the ground and back drops of mountains
The flipped suv
Belongings spread on the side of the high way.
Everyone silent and watching by
Grizzly train car stories are over heard, unable to ignore
Then there is the Detroit man
At the Missoula stop
2 hour layover
With a hole in his heart
Heavy his mind must have been the 3 days prior traveling to meet up with me on our same embark to west coast
He calls it home
I can’t call it anything out of name yet
But the hole was wide and deep and it poured out at me
Restless nights trapped with no outlet for grieving he was feeling
Shock and utter disbelief
2 months
I’m just there listening
Guilty, I cannot feel his pain
they wouldn’t want anyone to
And deep in his hole he knew it to
But it was still there, gaping
bus poem