Phenomenology of time as return

How a frosted glass repeats
the shadow of itself on the desk:
a broken circumnavigation.

How the the tree cut down
in the back lot leaves a table
smoothed by five days’ rain—

Ask about the green-shrouded
spirits who walked past my sleeping
form to convene in the attic—

How the peonies bent
their heads from the deepest
rose they could bear—

How I knew the smallest buds
would give their hearts
like that, too.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.