Dispatch #8

The Focus

The Focus

i.

A lamp’s
reflection
in the window.

My face
reflected
beside it

bombarded
by sparrows.

ii.

Morning
suspended
in sheets of
haze, the
evaporated
dawn. The
room
in the space
of a breath
becoming
summer.
Windows
open
to a caved-in sky.

iii.

Irises, their
indescribable
violet, in bloom

beside a funeral home’s
unkempt
hedge.

iv.

It isn’t spring
if the landscape
isn’t whiplashed
and how the heart
stumbles
to catch up.
Every wild
and nameless
thing
mindlessly
reaching.

v.

Pain makes
a pact
with time.
Call it
the present.

I’m alive
on a stoop
on a Sunday;
a fragment
among
fragments

cohering
into a world.

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