Space from Nothing
       

Rhythm being time
bound, I sit alone all day all
June—my foot my
leg's lackey, my toes tapping, filling
their distance. At night I roll
film, my reels of wings, tail,
clouds—the heights
speckled, one specific
fuselage nuzzling sun
shower-thickened, backlit flat
blueness. Now they say sky
blue, domesticizing
the ether, even. Clock
management, full
calorie, boardroom, unironically.
Detail oriented.
The bodies
pulled from the dirt near
O'Hare to free up
room for a runway were
disinterred. I have never,
I think, been bored. I start
pacing, designate four,
five moments
for rest. Watch
a moth
flit, the sink drip. Those flying machines
like cartons, sub-peachpit-
sized on the filmstrip—this water
glass, full and clear, so
eccentric, that bath
towel fit to soak up a sun
storm, cram it in.

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Copyright © 2013 Steve Barbaro All rights reserved
from The Literary Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission