Bob Dornberg © 2007 All Rights Reserved
A zero in the eye widens when we need
more light. Sharp edges soften, charcoal
on damp canvas. Church bells hum
in our wooden umbrella handles as rain
blurs the street. All day we wander inside
the belly of a cloud, blinking. Look up:
the gray repeats itself. Sidewalks recede
into haze; the stone steps to your apartment
turn slippery and dark.
The year spent in York
scattering stale bread into cathedral shadows
meant little, nothing. Hooves across cobblestone.
Memorize the face reflected in the well bottom,
find a place for it. Find a place for the wavering
voice, lightning shocking the windows white, static
haunting the phone. The distance sound travels
from sky to earth. From your shipwrecked bed
you listen: a wide exhale through your smallest bones.
Copyright © 2007
Brent Goodman is the author of two chapbooks, Trees are the Slowest Rivers (Sarasota Poetry Theatre Press)and Wrong Horoscope (Thorngate Road Press), which won the 1999 Frank O’Hara Chapbook Award. Poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Poetry, Zone 3, and Rattle, among many others. He lives in Rhinelander, Wisconsin, where he works as a professional writer.
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