william erikson | Poetry
One of the mountains did not sprout legs. As the others stood and shook the plates with their slow and stupendous steps, the legless mountain sat. See, from the roof, the stillness it possesses. Its neverthelessness, I mean. How ceaseless change invites itself upon the fact of durability. How, too, the opposite. Every morning my love and I lace up our hiking shoes knowing with certainty the spider’s lightless home will be crushed by an insistent sky.
william erickson is a living poet. His work appears in Sixth Finch, Heavy Feather, Sprung Formal, West Branch, and elsewhere. He is a 2023 Best New Poets and 2024 Best of the Net nominee. william’s most recent chapbook is Sandbox (Bottlecap Press), and his debut collection is forthcoming with April Gloaming in 2024. He lives in Washington with his partner and their two dogs in an old house across the street from a large tree.