The falling of a leaf onto a pond is one movement
in a process composed of many movements.
It floats for a while, crisply. Then softens and sinks.
It’s funny what comes to mind. All day you think
about a woman you haven’t seen in many years.
Her soft, brown hair. The way the corners of her eyes
pulled down. It’s not that you are filled with longing
or regret. But you are filled with something.
In a dream you climb a hill on the other side of town.
It is an arduous climb. At the end you are afraid
of falling. But then you look down and realize
all the houses are exactly like the house you live in.
In the distance, the same kind of highway.
Everything is the same. It’s just on the other side.
—from Rattle #30, Winter 2008