Friday, April 4, 2014




I’m seated near a lifted window, to peer
through patinated screen, past 
nothing-in-particular green –

beside the wide and round pine table
my mother’s darkly laughing, the lady
from across the way keeps
smoking cigarettes and talking

plush air threads in from the hedges
summer air, no-school air, idle
full of moisture, swarming insects air –

teaming squirrels dash up trees
and down, beneath the bushes, as
I sense the spill of conversation
I do not listen for the words; then

to see beyond interstices in the wire mesh
my vision passed as through a sieve
mingling on the other side with the buzz of bugs –

and likely not the first cognition –
more a stage of growth, my age
as something that I knew was turned
in one breath’s moment

aware-of-knowing still 
so acutely I recall
a mental flash, abrupt the brightness

when what is, or is to be
comes all at once together
the past, the present
and forever





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