|Jul/Aug 2015 Poetry|
Photography by Lydia Selk
Often at dusk they seem almost
To linger there against the ghost
of evening, set
With pearl, inlaid upon the night.
It seems inside—the cabin bright,
the window, now
Opaque, that looks but cannot see
the trailing band
Dissolve into uncertainty
from where you stand.
Still there, in the inside pocket
of an old coat
Left in the closet—a locket,
a five-franc note,
A subway token. Things not missed
in all that time
Resurface now, like a last kiss
or a lost rhyme.
They remind you of that river
not entered twice;
Moments that seemed gone forever
break through the ice.