Friday, July 25, 2014

Susan Lewis

Like Leaves


more or less

advertently plangent

while, glossy & glasslike
our point of view

filters & reflects
(to the rumble of agitated droplets)

(like distant hooves
where zebras outnumber

their plainer cousins)—
despite the paucity of

synthesis or
other human ascendancy—

(since beauty’s in
the detours)


in a dry wind,

her hunted gaze

Does he see(k)
Our Lady of Situations?

The Cave of Time?
Dodging still,

her view thins &
runs like gruel.

Shrunken, crouching
in her minor shadow,

waiting for another eye
to see her way.

The hot wind
punishes the leaves

huddling & cowering
like crones

while the heat blurs the edge
of its own weight

& wisdom softens
& submits.

The lovers’ words
repeat & what

needs hearing
withers on the tongue.

Yes but no.
Soon but never.

He thinks what he missed
might wait.

He thinks she
should lead the way.

She sees this hurtling,
hour by hour,

while ripeness ever &
ever eludes.


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