Saturday, August 15, 2009

Day Window

Into the kitchen a thread of sun
floats down quiet. A private
sense of absence in my
everyday patterns–breath
pulled into my ribs prying
me apart–and outside
the window coated in soot
from winds that came
all winter, some process has
ceased–although birds
drop and lift off the roof,
aerial sweeps, or just bursts of
feather, wings, claws, and the leap
of heart I would have,
should I be so brightly altered
with the chances of life,
a reparation I feel gathering
in the pitch, scarlet wing, most
unnatural sound held in the dim
threshold of my throat–
or am I less than I was–
and fear I can’t distinguish
the thin blue current inside the light
from the slant in my voice
or the early morning fog laid over
the grass from the voice
that underlies everything.

-Joanna Klink