Friday, June 2, 2017

You can see it all from here

What happens to pain, when the one who felt it is gone?

A shovel, planted firmly, in the ground.

Your thoughts are warm, familiar.

They are exactly where the wind has blown.

In helpless disarray. In uncombed rows.

You set them down. You see them sown. You are alone.

AM radio. Breakfast poem. The old gas stove.

Linoleum. Wash tub. Razor. Mirror.

You can see it all from here, the vineyard and the marigolds.

The sun goes down. Someone in, someone out.

What happens in the dark, is the lightest thing you know.

And then, your last breath . . . and . . . oh!


Jonathan Chant said...


William Michaelian said...

Jonathan, thanks for reading these lines with such a generous spirit.