Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Fifteen Winter 2007 |
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Poem for a Son Ted Lardner Someone is here then not. You know about things from this. What holds the world, what goes back. The flower market, its winding, fragrant aisle passes on to you the hour someone stood, stock in love, forever in love, grateful loving you. Now chicory cries blue. Now tips of the eastern fir trees lift, a blanket of stars, a mountainside of candles: Someone is still standing, loving you. Everyone you know of, knows from you a flake of this love. Yes, water whitens its separations. Yes, atoms slide through the space of other atoms. Someone here is yet helping you load your soul on the bus. Call when you get there, someone says. And you call. |