Martha Ronk



Opaque particulars but at least
the stuck door you bang a hip into.
Quaint one might say, body here
body there.
What she was wearing in the dream seems to linger unimportantly all morning.
There wasn’t supposed to be any today
but light manages to turn the forest floor around.
The periphery sneaks in a high-pitched
and the dream of convincing.
It was percussive, bent his back into the past
the first time he heard it.
August comes that very day, and so do we,
finally, step across the threshold,
waiting for anything to right itself
for the impatient wind to burn itself out.

© 2008 Electronic Poetry Review