POEM
Drifting at Midday
Now I can see: even the trees
are tired: they are bones bent forward
in a skin of wind, leaning in
osteoporosis, reaching
for a little more than any
oxygen can give: when living
is in season, they can live;
but living is no reason
to continue: everything begins:
and everything is desperate
to extend: and everything is
insufficient in the end:
and everything is ending:
Now I can see: even the trees
Source: Poetry (September 2009).
This poem originally appeared in the September 2009 issue of Poetry.
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Malachi Black is literary editor of the New York Quarterly and a James A. Michener . . . MORE »
