My nerves are awake from their odd sleep.
An engine’s growling guttural barges in like
Some wreckage of my so-called solitude.
Today, the crucial difference is sameness
In a brand new way. The fan becomes
An airy muse. My shoes have wandered off
To hide beneath a table over there.
The walls are chock-a-block with things that
Someone made in some old recent, fast
Retreating passing by. The apple core
Beside me browns away. Red berries cluster
On the weeping tree outside my window.
Today the sky is blue and soon enough
There will be nothing left of me to breathe
This life-light in, this air the dog that’s down there
Barking out his joyousness or woe
Is breathing too. And you, and you, and you.

# # #

Alan Clark is a poet an artist living in Maine and as often as possible, Mexico. He has two books: Guerrero and Heart’s Blood, and Where They Know. His poems have appeared in The Caribbean Writer, Little Star, Adirondack Review, Zocalo Poets, East Coast Ink and others.

Photo: Drew Jemmett