Last Morning
Fog wound the neighbor's forsythia
until the sun unwrapped it -- not
your gift. Draw breath, towel
the dribbled coffee, close the door,
close the curtains. Wind out there
tears chimney smoke off at the roots.
Dogs prowl the road like threats.
Didn't you know things would slide,
the sink and cupboards would blur,
and nobody left gives a damn
for that pressed swatch of sky
treasured in the dresser drawer?
Verbs untense, slip their knots.
Infinitives rip like a sudden gust
through your closet of little ironies--
to be, to have, to darken, to end
burst like forsythia in the window.
© 2002 James Owens
James Owens lives in Northport, Alabama, where he is the editor of The Sow's
Ear Poetry Review. His poems have appeared in numerous literary journals,
including recent or upcoming publications in Adirondack Review, Now & Then,
The Pedestal and Wind.