Afternoon Dust

writing

tucson

A friend recently asked me to dig something out of my archive for him, but somewhere amidst the years’ multiple computer and OS changes the fragment of writing he was looking for seems to have vanished. I did manage to find the following poem, which struck me as seeming particularly resonant in these uncertain days, hence the posting:

tuscon

We tread carefully, dust clinging
to our feet; the clicking
of latches.
Thoughts unpacking themselves.

Where we go there are no
footprints, only inverted shadows:

we can’t pronounce
the name of our country,
the nation to which
we belong.

The sun charts our progress
with her sextant.
Windows open and close,
their frames glistening
like the surface of a lake
seen from below.