Today's poem is by Steve Barbaro

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
, 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.

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

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