Fragile and momentary, we continue,
waking to the pull of breath at dawn.
Outside, the world begins to dress in light.
So many small forms of hesitation: the way
the kettle on the stove somehow doesn't sit
completely within the burner's circle,
and so the water takes longer to shrill.
Last night's rain still lines the undersides
of leaves, and the lamps on the street have not
yet gone out. I am always standing in the in-
between, one hand folded around a dream, the other
raised toward the shape of a decision. My ear
turning toward the last place it remembers
an animal once stopped for water.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
