That Summer of the Pandemic, It Was All Falling Apart, It was All Coming Together

It’s after eight in the evening,

and in this antique light,

the Queen Anne’s Lace along the roads

watches the sinking sun –

hundreds of tatted blooms

close up like praying hands,

like thousands of empty teacups drained

and set upon the sideboard of the day.

In the morning they’ll open again

to catch the the brewing day,

the sun steeping over

the edge of Lake Michigan.

But that is all to come,

and nothing is guaranteed,

least of all tomorrow morning, and

so I ride on.

Tonight, it is still warm as I pedal past

the green-risen pastures

spread unevenly with buttered light,

the shadowed cemetery with tombstones

like stale biscuits rising from the earth,

the Beagle club

where old men sit in lawn chairs

in the driveway and wave to me,

and the beagles throw their heads back

and howl.

Tonight, I am

that empty, weathered barn

leaning toward the road,

full to bursting of the last

of the honeyed light

that seeps through the gaps,

I am filled up

with the space

that useful things have left behind,

my wooden bones echoing

with the far-off sound

of barking dogs.

I have said my prayers,

I have again and again

drained my cup

and if it is not filled again,

if the sun does not rise for me,

I can only open what is shut, I can only

come crashing down

and

let loose the light.


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