CIRCUIT
I look down at my palms
Creased like dry river beds
As I sit in my room
Its walls white as paper
In a house among houses
All wearing the same face
The same wooden uniform
In an army of small towns
Of a nation under a flag
Stained with a thousand tears
Riding a blue world
Through a room black as ash
Toward a man in a chair
Looking down at his palms
Creased like dry river beds
That he’s somehow seen before
Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh,
Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally
and overseas in a variety of print and online publications.
