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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.

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