John Harper

MAYBE IT IS YOU the mist cannotbe seen through; it’s made of small,moving things sticking to larger,more life-long things— but when you look,with some peace of mind, at some of these things,they become smaller and smalleruntil you must ask what they really are—they seem to have turnedinto nowhere now— MY BUDDHA if i close my eyes,its head has alreadyrolled away; the rest of itgladly remains upright,waiting for instructionon what now,now to do— a white light exudesfrom the inside seen;the head lies a few inches away—i’m not surewhich to look at— the meadowsof its overwhelmingheart of body or its head,casting a shadowin wonderful moonlight— i’m spookedenough to say,for fear of retaliation, the headhas mostof my attention— YOU NEVER NEED TO BE FOUND it’s becoming ridiculous,how i can seem confused while also beingthe very thing who says, john, you’re lost—it doesn’t matter its answer— not at all; whatever i doas an attempt to change is to tighten my own noose—but what’s even odder is how hard i’ll fightto keep the struggle real— John Harper went to the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and some of his poems have been published by literary journals like DIAGRAM, MID-AMERICAN POETRY REVIEW, CUTBANK, SPINNING JENNY, MAD HATTER’S REVIEW, and ZOLAND POETRY. He currently lives in Reading, PA, walking along Main Street of the heart.