that point when i am running up a hill
(whether i choose to do so or not)
when i feel i can’t keep jogging
because the sky fishdances
and the chest airleaks
and the orbit redfunnels
and then right before the houses
and asphalt clamp
my bronchioles soften and air comes
and the legs blur without a host
and i levitate inside a sphere
a puff of whisper inside a glass
and no amount of pain
can word inside the
As an RN in the great Pacific Northwest, Scott Ferry helps our Veterans heal. In other lives, he taught English and practiced acupuncture. He also serves as Senior Editor at Gleam: Journal of the Cadralor, and his writing appears in American Journal of Poetry, Cultural Weekly, KYSO Flash, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Misfit, Noble/Gas Qtrly, Slippery Elm, Spillway, and Swimming with Elephants, among others.
His third book of poetry, These Hands of Myrrh, is upcoming from Kelsay Books. His first collection, The only thing that makes sense is to grow, was published by Moon Tide Press in December 2019, and his second, Mr. Rogers kills fruit flies, by Main Street Rag in October 2020.