See, there is grass at the bottom
of the stairs, and a tree. Just
a generic, nameless tree.
The street, black with a yellow
stripe, has a name which
doesn’t matter. That family is gone,
and their house, and we do not care.
But there is 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, bitter 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 offstage.
Clouds line up to build tomorrow’s set,
where stars fidget, clear their throats
and sing the evening hymn. Beyond
that scene, a thousand dusty lines
of memory – grandparents, school yards,
car wrecks, sex – are 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.

Kyle Kimberlin
3^rd Draft, 7/22/06

[2^nd draft posted 1/11/06]