|Jul/Aug 2003 • Poetry|
A Body at Rest
from Plate 44, Jan Groover
What do we say about these last days?
What do we know about the scratched and mottled plane,
the strength in the jaws of the pliers
held at bay by a shadowed lemon,
or the tender wisp of an onion skin
pretending it's a shell?
In this world of ambiguous light,
what do you make of the hour?
What do you say about these last days?
Playing Catch With the Dogwood
All summer the dry branches
crack and fall, scatter
on the lawn. I pile them
at garden's edge,
and every day there are more. As long
as the wind has breath there are
more. The dog wants to play.
He is blue, and a rascal for afternoons.