Poetry Archives

Down the hill, in the field of sweet alfalfa, they’re
     freezing each other, the children

playing tag and I’m up at the house, I’m
in the picture window, thin
and distant like the glimpse

of a surfacing fish. What dark waters
the house is, behind me, settling
into evening. Dusk

and there are, of course, fireflies. Tell me,
what was your name? When you visited once,

by the backroad where the stones glowed pale
in the moonlight, I was too young, I still thought
I belonged to the world. But now

quartered in this house, watching the neighbors’ children
turn to dusk, I feel
I’m ready. Come back

and bring your finest wine, the oldest bottle.
Bring that strange dusty book you were reading.