Coming To
       

In comes diesel out goes diesel in comes diesel.
108 degrees in the shade of a wall
where a hummingbird dines in the bright bell
of a common foxglove. At dusk,
a thundercloud beats over the mountain.

Coming to. Coming to lines and area.
The early light, buoyant; the triangle of its music.
Deductions like the mouth unclowning.
The hand finding itself. The nose.
A dose of leg uncurving to the paste of language.

Neighbors beneath the prophecy of a windy oak.
An oriole there plays curtain, water wheel.
Inside, fingerprints trace the pattern of
an old centrality: The strapless shoulder,
seldom freckle, breeze a deep draw.

"Anemia per se or sudden anemia."
By afternoon, few stopping points.
The wind's ignition, the quotient of its disrespect.
That puffy cloud a head of cauliflower,
that mistranslation a dusty thistle.

The rain's volume, sound, and volume, much.
Brookwater's down through stones until
the interval between lamplight and nightfall.
Death is a lengthening still. Dark is
a consequence, still, and lengthening.

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Copyright © 2012 Daniel Gutstein All rights reserved
from New Orleans Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission