Today's poem is by Alison Apothecker

Fog on Skyline Drive

Because what I say must be said
          silently, a hushed gathering
of lip readers practicing
          an imprecise articulation,

and also because all you can do
          as you grip the wheel this evening
and steer against the white line
          that leaves you dizzy in its trailing off,
lost mid-sentence, a verb
                   feeling for its object,

I will have you trust that this night
          will unfold in the same order it does
on any night, that you will,
more slowly, yes, but all the same—

Let me explain it this way:
All that is indecipherable is what I am.
Trees become their shadows and their shadows'
          shadows the faces
you've tried hard to remember not to

You will come to know faith as a white flag
          you wave to the road and night,
the deer and opossum waiting just beyond
          the dimmed lights.
                   Your body calls this grace.

Now, you see it clearly in your mind:
          a warm room, the sleeping dog.
I give you the chance, curve by curve
          to practice what is necessary
                   to say
                            and to hear it being said.

Copyright © 2006 Alison Apothecker All rights reserved
from Crab Orchard Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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