How do we come to know anything about a body, or how it must leave itself behind in order to travel somewhere it can't imagine either? With great reluctance, after the last hard rain that fell a week, the water that pooled in the yard finally ribbons into the ground. We're told there will be nights at year's end when four planets will follow each other across the sky's dome. From here they will look so close, like pins someone reached up to tack in a thoughtful line onto a board. In the morning, all along our fence which is also the other side of the neighbor's fence, a stripe like a gray horizon, still damp; measure of how much, how high.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.