A vacant hour
before the sun—
and with it a valve's
pneumatic hush,
the deep and nautical
clunk of wood,
chanson du ricochet
of rivet gun,
trowel tap,
and bolt drawn—
the moon sets
and water breaks.
Curled within
a warm pleroma,
playing for time,
you finally turn
and push your face
toward November's
glint of frost,
grains of salt,
weak clarities
of dawn.
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| Copyright © 2010 by Devin Johnston. Used with permission of the author. |
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