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Fred |
I have tried to answer “why,”
I have and halve,
Until I’m left with the vestiges of an assumption.
Or when the dew ends somehow in dryness,
thickened with sawdust and midday.
And I will soon forget the suffocation of hunger,
bone on steel, everything I heard here.
I cannot make a way for you to get here,
the fare is paid in buffalo nickels and haystacks;
only parcel out the distance
(as the crow or raven flies,
undeterred by the shifting currents of air,
unencumbered by levity and certainty)
with the length of my arm.
I can only say "it is so,"
and uncurl and stretch it into my memory,
laundry on a drying line.
Labels: Fred
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