Tuesday, September 10, 2013

under stars by tess gallagher

the sleep of this night deepens
because i have walked coatless from the house
carrying the white envelope.
all night it will say one name
in its little tin house by the roadside.

i have raised the metal flag
so its shadow under the roadlamp
leaves an imprint on the rain-heavy bushes.
now i will walk back 
thinking of the few lights on 
in the town a mile away.

in the yellowed light of a kitchen
the millworker has finished his coffee,
his wife has laid out the white slices of bread
on the counter. Now while the bed they have left
is still warm, i will think of you, you
who are so far away
you have caused me to look up at the stars.

tonight they have not moved
from childhood, those games played after dark.
again i walk into the wet grass
toward the starry voices. again, i
am the found one, intimate, returned
by all i touch on the way.


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