Kyle Crawford: Lincoln Nebraska Poets Part Three

A poem by Kyle Crawford, co-founder of sp ce gallery and third poet in our Lincoln series. One (forthcoming) interview with Kyle bios all.

Kyle introduces himself




In a word, yes. Although here it wasn’t.

The village square met in the middle there

where all eyes were its focus—a steeple

rising above the tree’s shadows, above

the bells sounding hymns for time keeping,

keeping courage for tomorrow’s waking,

tomorrows ago remembered and todays

days away.


This was before the water rose. Before

the chunks of rock were heaved upon the

water’s way.


A single boat directed me, then.


Directions weren’t actual directions, there, where

my east wasn’t east as west wasn’t your west, too.

Despair isn’t ever despair without itself there,

and it wasn’t. Because rain makes want makes

us listen to its coming on or stirring about. It

considered us lucky, then, to live without it, or to

live with our made rain as we did or do or are

doing or have done now for days or days and days.


Still, it stood. Not a symbol but a steeple. All glass

but not glass, a steeple.


And then came the sacrifice. A village a village of

saturation for better days to come. To build higher.

To build stronger and higher than. A bubble of glass

swallowed it all up and up. The steeple not sad but

sinking. Not so much sinking but rising with

the water, then. Now look down to it, now look

down. Its glass is still glass but a broken steeple’s

just that same broken steeple.


Village ghosts are the lucky last ones lucky. Sing it with


            Words aren’t glass but are. A boat is a boat and is.


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