At a lancet looking out
on empty hills and dark forests, Carpathians
hulking against the horizon like titans,
he watches for other human beings
and finds none.
The road leading away turns out of sight
to disappear among the pines,
headed beyond the mountains,
where men dwell bitterly and without recourse
and do so together.
His eyes flicker with reptilian light,
a hollow longing he can no longer name.
He does not know why he watches the road,
who he looks for, why he believes they will come at night
when only unpeopled creatures roam the earth
or leer from tall towers.
He has forgotten many things.
He no longer knows pecheneg, magyar, or vlach,
the dust of his fixtures, the soil of his bed.
He no longer knows hunger, pain, or loss,
he conceives of no better.
He no longer knows his name, his age, his face;
there is no other.
The mirror hanging loose above a cold hearth shows
a rotting table, faded cloth,
tarnished brass, broken chairs;
an empty room
and quiet shadows.
Harrison Hurst was raised among the mountains and valleys of Tennessee, in the city of Chattanooga, where he earned a dual Bachelor's Degree in History and Liberal Arts. These two fields form the foundation of his work, which seeks patterns in the history of humans and the earth, and elucidates them through art. He currently works as an executive assistant at Walnut Street Publishing.