Nothing to It

My mind a lake of milk: a lack
of after, of before—all song

fallen from the ear, astonishment
gone small in me, a trinket

jingling in my sleep. Smirkless
face, past quotation. Grave's

taste fading on the tongue,
then hardtack, then nothing,

then one brushstroke betokens me.
No predicate. Weightless

as a page erased. And a sprig
of timothy for devastation.

Copyright © 2008 Chris Forhan All rights reserved
from New Orleans Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission