Simple

and the whole white sky descends a grain
at a time—I with it and the threshold dis-

appearing. That we can find ourselves
in this. That some thing might sigh so

artless an exhalation (storm the oddest word
for early, unearned sweetness, for blinded

panes—brown dogs over their heads in blue
snow, their red hearts clanging, their eyes

as good as sightless except for the joy. For
the loss of that other, a better known world).

Copyright © 2005 Renée Ashley All rights reserved
from Chautauqua Literary Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission