leaf
Gregory Luce
you were sleeping so I ate by myself and then I stood up and looked out the back door at the evening light saturating the yard, tinting the houses and trees, flooding all the way out to the power lines, late summer’s burst of life buzzing and flitting around and in the flowering bushes, a pale slice of moon already floating in the sky.
leaf This is the leaf I meant to send you it’s a bit dry now and veined with tiny fissures be careful holding it it was alive once.
four crows in a bare tree
fly
glimpsed briefly as the train hurtles past a field cleared by bulldozers little hills of dirt and rubble piles and clumps of weeds poking up here and there remarkable how much one takes in while speeding past a last look back and the crows still perch unmoved
Eloquent: the fly’s buzz against glass; the light beyond and beyond and in the light the trees, hills, and sky.
the half-life of human suffering Residual like the grit left in a dry stream bed: rough but it glitters in the moonlight.
Š
Copyright 2008 Gregory Luce Piney Branch Press