Poem of the Week

Over here the circle theme continues

without a clock, uncountable

and unmarked despite a pouring sound,

despite slight lesions in the rock.

A hand is waving, silently, from under

cover of cloud we said was blanketing

the sky, and so, indeed, the sky is blank

but for a reverie of reach and touch;

the ancient, fingered dark.

The word I was trying to recall is fungible

but it doesn’t mean what I had thought,

so now I need to trade it for

another, one that means porous, means

mutable, means a shadow can pass through

unnoticed, means you turn and nothing

before comes after, nothing takes hold.