by Jeff Hardin
I could give
my horizon,
the one I see
on cheekbones,
or I could give
how a gravestone
is armless
and can’t do anything
to hold back
a soul.
And then there are
those doodlings
my child leaves everywhere,
almost-words
in some new language
I have to
lay on my stomach
to read.
If I could give away
the woman’s fingers
sauntering through
the organ’s tones,
I’d also give
my last three steps
in creek shallows,
how cool my feet felt
in silt.
But who wants
wayward things,
the bricklayer’s humming,
the sandcastle’s lean,
the thimble of air,
the two rowboats
side by side
bumping against
one another
as if in sleep?
*This piece may not be archived, reproduced or distributed further without the author’s express permission.