Sunday, August 10, 2008

When It Is Over

I am not there.
In a field feeling grass cut
my ankles dancing lightly

alone or not. Or disturbing
quietly clouds' shadows on even
green, spreading out in reflex

as I sleep or distracting
the intent beating of the universe
by being an erratic striking

thing, but not there. I am lost
to you where the soil is expecting
storm, or flowers. I am not telling.

No comments: