Sunday, September 16, 2012

If i go to the window


Twenty Glasses

We listen to the night and the night
listens to us. We survive the labors of
life only to thrive in the labor of death.

Enigmas arrive every day. We are no
different. The man at the table reads
from a book and for the next hour,

every three minutes, he purposely knocks
over a glass. We watch with anticipation
as if one of those glasses might spontaneously


reconstruct itself. Instead, the pile of broken
glass grows with each fallen tumbler leaving
us to think on the dual nature of gravity.

Outside, coyotes do not rouse you as they
have me. If I go to the window, the moon
has already slipped behind the far trees.

Every breath brings me one more closer
to leaving all of this. I think on this while
you sleep dreaming tables and glasses.

Joseph Gallo
August 21, 2012



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