Blown Away
There’s something stuck in my throat, it might be the red-eyed
vireo I heard earlier—a song I swallowed to keep myself upright.
I would have followed it if I could, but anyway, these things we fix
our sights on, they all disappear. Like daylight, slipping slowly
until you look up, and you’re engulfed—so dark you can’t see
your own hands, your friend’s face. Face it, we say, meaning
get good with the truth—however striated. Get ready to be floored,
blown away by the ordinary—the old dog’s half-assed dash toward
a baby rabbit, the moon leaning its dark shoulder on a cloudbank
over our heads. I’m thinking of all those long summer days
when we sat around unsteady kitchen tables. What we spilled
and what we saved from spilling. When we pushed our chairs away
it was to step outside to listen, wind talking dirty to the lawn,
bees staggering back to their hive.
