The
span of a June-bug
Every other night,
my dreams are of an old, old lady
who shoots her body clear
of the child-space to which it has shrunk
and, bracing, springs a morning arm
to finger-dust the lintels.
my dreams are of an old, old lady
who shoots her body clear
of the child-space to which it has shrunk
and, bracing, springs a morning arm
to finger-dust the lintels.
On the nights between, she misses
by the span of a June-bug,
which is the slim width of dismay,
which feels like a cinder
snugged in last year’s boots
at the start of a long walk home
by the span of a June-bug,
which is the slim width of dismay,
which feels like a cinder
snugged in last year’s boots
at the start of a long walk home
to a yard where the dark has come early
and gold has thrown off its flowers,
where the gate has forgotten
how to yawn upon the lane
and drags the gravel
with the sound of a spent moon
dropping from its night.
and gold has thrown off its flowers,
where the gate has forgotten
how to yawn upon the lane
and drags the gravel
with the sound of a spent moon
dropping from its night.
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