Let our places be taken again,
each face worn smooth by time.
Napkins neatly folded, tips pointing up.
Komm Herr Jesus, Father says, Sei unser gast.
Centerpiece of dried fig and grapevine.
Let us come, mortal once more.
Last of September,
whitetail fawns have lost their spots.
South of town,
past steeples of the hard believers,
they cross the bridge at twilight.
Through the window crack
the breeze passes right through her,
washing the voices clean.
Hunched, alert, unshorn, sovereign,
cat licking the cream of nothing.
She wanders at night among the sleepers.
From its cage on the wall,
the clock’s cold face watches.
Asleep, you can go to a dance,
smoke a Lucky from a thousand-foot pier.
Passing an empty bed,
she leans slightly forward, into the wind,
gazing down on the valley the glacier has made.
Stephen Knauth | Frederica >>
Contents | Mudlark No. 45 (2012)