Be still. Let the procession come to you. A moon might be rising behind the podium: It remains beneath notice. It is nothing to breath, to the porous route of air. It is not pliable, that rock, and we are to care proportionately for the supple, for those close to becoming. This is a process, that is, knowable to the human eye—Not some greater human eye, but to our own little history. Take the paper. Sign the paper. The moon will by then have moved from your line of sight.
Carolyn Guinzio Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
|©copyright 2004-2022, No Tell Motel. All poems ©copyright the authors.|