A book with at least four page markers

and a row of untouched spines.

The clock hands stuck then racing.

Clothes constricting.

Clouds holding onto rain.

Gestures of a universal language.

Traffic moving every which way

without caring much about the views.

A town that held onto its street lamps

a little too long

before giving way to tattoo parlors

though there’s a cobbler on Main Street.

A tree that has breathed tar and tornadoes

knowing men as they were children.

The story never really begins but picks up

somewhere back and forth in the middle.

I walked on the 4th floor today,

where spines had scrolled designs

and there were more bound volumes

on science and poetry

than where I usually walk.

There was a sculpture of some vaguely

female form, round and abundant

locked in a display case

at the corner of “M.”

There I could almost hear Millay:

“I only hoped, with the mild hope of all

Who watch the leaf take shape upon the tree…”

And I hoped too to see it through,

whatever it is. Probably it is tree-shaped

if it is something I love,

possibly without deep roots

but strong and able to bend

as we dance- because I like to dance,

or I used to

before I became abundant.

I descended a few floors to find

somehow, the ground was not moving

though I distinctly felt the building shift.

Maybe it was me with the weight

of spinning odes and artsy spines

and pottery peering at me through glass.

I sat just long enough
in one spot
to know the message of leaves
as they sang in the wind:
nothing is certain
but Change will come.

I forgot how old I was
as the breeze brushed my skin
and my Faith pushed forward,
making the steps smoother.

The light flickered
and years flew back and forth,
a timeless search
abandoned, let go
for a contented Chaos.