TRACY KORETSKY
after the storm... at my feet a nest --bird calls in the breeze a nest at my feet after the storm somewhere, an alarm after the storm... the quiet of your breath beside my ear -- all the things that could have been all the things that aren’t at my feet my old dog warms at my old dog’s feet: a nest and the kids play hopscotch in the driveway play the hokey-pokey jump-rope, pick-up-sticks can i trust what she will tell me? a nest at my feet after the storm the steaming cup lifted to lips | It’s About The time you stopped traffic to say that you love me. The time the aged are behind, the genius, ahead of. The time that leaves its signature on music: ragtime dripped through clarinets in Preservation Hall; waltz time encircling peach-faced debutantes. Teatime in spring time. The timepiece imported cheaply from Japan in peacetime that never gives the exact time only necessary when robbing a bank. Dinner time. Prime time. Bedtime. One more time. Curtain time, opening night! The time the runner seeks to surpass. Time and motion studies on timeshared computers; the timeclock punched to put food on the table time and time and time again, and the part-timer flirting by the coffee. The time step tapped on salted dance floors. The timeless character of the single pearl worn for old times sake, that time in my life when I had you to pass the time of day. The time that chemotherapy buys. The time the prisoner serves: the time on the faces of clocks melting over Salvador Dali’s trees. The oblong time of an expectant mother. The time it took to evolve from the prideless dust of the earth; the time it takes to return. |
