Slip your feet into sandals, your shoulders out of loose sweaters. A slip of rain remains on the roof, and not all bodies are easy to rouse. You wrap your body in any season, regardless of weather. The minutes tick quietly above the counter, practicing for the final season. And yet, so much refusal of what's final; look, leaves rain down but blossoms open. It's like the world refuses to give up just yet. A whole world teems with life in a waterdrop, under a scope. How to stack them like a calculus, an abacus of sheen trembling on the surface? Which is to say, the countdown began sometime ago but isn't done. Loose coins of sunlight fall on the body remembering how to be one.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
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