Menu

Poetry

Nothing quite rhymes like time
to kill and this long, clingstone schooling—
reason traitorous, the season a bomb
of decoy mimosa, birdscree, the pool

under shattering low leaves, God
saying now. I’m not sure
I’ll ever be ready. Will I go easy,
nail from a rotted board, splinter

pulled from a foot surprised & bare
as I came, legs wrapped around—?
Love trumps pain is the lesson with which
I’m out of my mind. The sun’s going down

slow, in our language. I thank its freighted skull.
As though any other life were possible.


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

Access one piece of artwork every month for free! To experience the full archive, log in or subscribe.

Related Poetry

early morning light against a wall and a lamp with a wide shade. the room is yellow and gold and warm.

Thomas Hardy in Oregon, Summer 2007

By

Floyd Skloot

The Bar Mitzvah

By

Fleda Brown

A Prayer for Home

By

Bronwen Butter Newcott

Lascaux

By

Graham Hillard

Pin It on Pinterest