A Month of Sundays
       

To say yes is to be
pretty, sort of,
to somebody. That
somebody would
ask are you it?

·

A view views an inter-
as if a kind of canal . . .

then uses it to view some
sort of other view. A kind

of barometer. Ridiculous,
maybe, but maybe true.

·

Is any other, could it be, a book
too—a sort of ship as I felt I've been,

in a slip, or sailing through a sea
of kelp? For the mast I make

a novel, for the hatches and casks,
the rats and the spyglass (avast ye!),

for the buckler and sash, an ear-
and-a-half; and in the order written.

·

I've never been—only to one
place, this one; that was years

ago. (I'm still there.) And in,
too (still), an insistence: to dam

a backyard stream, lose my way
in the middle of a city, light

my way because the brightness
of the day gave me a bad map.

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Copyright © 2015 Terrence Chiusano All rights reserved
from Colorado Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission