Thursday, July 27, 2023


        After James Wright

You might think, 
one day,
in passive time 

with the rhythm 
of a hammock swinging—

as you blink 
away the dispassionate 

and feel the raggedy  
tops of tall grass blades 

tickle the dangling
tips of your fingers—

the great poet 
was right: I have wasted 
my life. And yet,

standing between
a real feeling 
and the truth 

is the fact that 
you never decided 
or chose to.

And who knows—
that skinny divergence, 

that small act 
of defiance 

might alter the future 
as well as 
the past—

as you oscillate 
there in the breeze 
killing time—

from deep 
in the center of your story 
on out,

one bleary vowel, 
one rough syllable 
at a time.