The Impossible Poem

All the time

common as Happy Meals

Common as hands

tearing down

the Bastille.

The impossible is done

naturally enough.

The heart,

impossible valentine,

stops and starts,

keeping its schedule

to break one day like

an impossible seed.

I have always believed

in the impossible.

I saw a milky miracle ghost

bend long at the door,

then scatter itself

impossibly the way

cottonwoods make snow

in June.

I desire impossibility,

but nothing impossible

ever happens to me.

Some people have too much

impossible: Billy Sisco,

my neighbor down the lane,

had both arms pulled out

by a newspaper press.

Billy said they rolled out

the other side,

part of Classified.

Impossible

is all flavors

of butterfly.

Billy drives

a newspaper truck

with his feet.

S.K. Carew copyright © 2026 All rights reserved.