Today's poem is by Rae Gouirand

Little Hour
       

I think I am not live
but I am. Night has stopped simply

feeling like something
swallowed, made clean—

I am no longer unclear
what it means.

The hills, I go back to them
air I breathe.

This breeze isn't feeling me
blue and fluid it bruises the yard

the fabric I hang in
here again. A year and I have

not come round—
the end of each day

the air change, its push
be touched.

Summer was a reverie.
A charm: something I believed—

This is where I put myself:
this house nothing. I had it

in my mouth. No sandy grain
it replaced what I'd been saying.

You are silent I've learned
in the long way. The way space

clears out for some breeze
I feel vaguely. I live in a town

there are no bells for the little hour—
the long line that forms

takes something for its essing.
In my head you're still saying

something convincing
in moments I think like wind—

space was holiest
before it stopped blinking.

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Copyright © 2023 Rae Gouirand All rights reserved
from Little Hour
Swan Scythe Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission