Not Standing in the Same River Twice
Sam Rasnake
Now, it seems, I forget most everything as if
time were a pocket hole and empty fingers,
the truth—somehow real and unforgiving—
like the distant thread of mountains, one
fresh-carved piece of cedar in the hand, or
sunset over a winter fence. No one stands
by the oleander. The wood chimes almost
give me a song. I’ll move the wasps tomorrow.
Otherwise, the porch is mine. Seas thrum
in my head, a reminder of the day’s hard gift.
Something to lie down in, to find the thickest
measure of body against body, an ache to dream
one sunrise closer. At the road’s edge, a water oak
bends over the pond’s lip. The surface smooths
its ripples to mirror. I’ve little left to do—
Return to Archive
|
