First there is grass at the bottom
of the stairs, and a tree. Just
a generic, unnamable tree.
The street, black with a yellow
stripe, has a name which
doesn’t matter, a family long gone
and their land divided to us who
do not care. Now a field, thirsty
again though it rained last week,
when for days I thought of nothing
so much as of the dead. Then the sea,
which is blue steel, winter cold
and hungry, in need of sleep.
Boats, oil rigs, islands, sea birds
lost and homeless, sick to death
of fish, and then the setting sky.
Ruby, saffron, tangerine, shouldering
cobalt and lapis lazuli. And beyond
the day’s grand finale of water
and terminal light is the great backstage.
Clouds line up for tomorrow’s overture
or tonight’s bland drizzle. Stars fidget,
clear their throats to sing the evening
hymn. Then a thousands dusty scenes
of memory – grandparents, school yards,
car wrecks, sex – all deconstructing
in the dark, and on pages just like this.
The gestures of my dying are rehearsing
there, you know, beyond the sky
and the mind, already breathing, born.


© 2006 by J. Kyle Kimberlin
all rights reserved
2nd Draft January 11, 2006