ISSN 1545-2859




               TIMOTHY GREEN


the sun rises earlier than
any other day i can remember.

the sparrows unveil their song as televisions
begin to flicker off one by one

the nightly news, as children
have just begun to dream, their heads buried

in blankets like sand.
nature has known to be wary

of silence, darkness,
the danger of hearing what’s coming

before it arrives, acceptance of death
worse than death itself.

there’s nothing that you or i can do now,
fate heavy like feet on gravel

bearing down. you wield your wounds
like a shield; lay open your heart

to the mud, still beating.
it’s no use, you know, no use.

when the phone rings i flinch,
over and over it rings

and i flinch, the earth so quiet now
between those bursts.

The Steps

still unstretched in this
low light, in this slit-eye
of morning, i step

a little farther to the right
than normal.
that is all it takes: six inches,

three floorboards,
the width of a fist
or a palm.

i swing my hips out
a little wider than
i did yesterday,

toe-touch like a dancer
in the skin-toned tights
of my thighs.

i’m learning, brewing coffee,
feeding your cats.
i’m moving

through your dim house now
as if it were mine, counting the steps
one by one. already

i’ve sketched a perfect map.
we are more than strangers,
the map says.

two more strides,
near the bathroom door,
another dead-spot groan

to straddle.
i navigate through
silently, i adjust

and readjust,
i mouth the words,
keep count to myself

so as not to wake you
from sleep.
so as not to spoil the illusion

we’ve been practicing
so hard night and day,
toe to toe, to create.

Copyright © 2004 Timothy Green. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

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