Anyone—or I—
couldn’t tolerate
what was late in arriving.
I squinted to figure out
where you might have been,
but darkness disconnected me
from the circumspection
of mankind.
Purblind, I couldn’t see the wall
or its grief.
Everyone was asking for you.
I won’t forget
the sheen their waiting held
or your absent silhouette.
I would have readily bent
to your celestial frame
had I lent myself to your peerage,
the wolfskin, the beam.
Where was last summer?
The inquisitive eyes of trees?
Where the new moon? The map?
How the attired dream
attracted you like lodestone.
And so you go.
(The headstrong will
won’t ground what has wings.)
The cloud drip. The isochromatic shield.
Life is tired. It’s true. And triple
triple you
how the arrow cushions reflex.
Where did I put last summer? Under glass?
What dropped
from the slotted sky other than contempt?
A promise maybe.
Who can misprize the indelible gift of light
my discoid rival hides?
Jennifer Juneau has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, The Million Writers Award and a Sundress Best of the Net award. Her work has appeared in many journals including American Poetry Journal, Cincinnati Review, Evergreen Review, Seattle Review, Verse Daily and elsewhere. She lives and writes in Brooklyn, New York.
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