Immigrant Time

After you left, what did you think
about the world that lay beyond the rim

of the only city you’d lived in almost
from birth? What did you think of the sky

you found extended beyond the tips
of airplane wings— that it would sift

snow fine as dust, whiter than flour
on your coat-sleeves, and still

you would never grow cold? What
did they tell you of how to endure

the solemn procession of years, the small
interregnum of time, the nip in the waist

and catch in the throat before the hourglass
spun to measure the grains all over again—

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.