Some strange bird is crying.
I hear a rumble, maybe a train.
Around the rim of the field trees begin to turn.
Summer holds on, as winter does, long after you expect it to be gone.
I said, “I love you because you let me.”
I still don’t know if I was right.
A loving gesture in the context of alienation is lonelier than silence.
The thread of disaster is impossible to follow through time.
Blackbirds rise in small bunches and resettle.
The sun sinks behind hills and stretches a shadow.
How do words join action? By what slender tissue?
My mouth is hard and flat, thinking about it.
Language plays with me, pushes me around.
Consciousness fools me into thinking I’m subject instead of object.
Water flows under the bridge and is gone.
The certainty of love rises after anger dies down.
copyright c Karen Schoemer 2016