Considering The Options
       

So I say to the wind: I'm sorry to want.
A loose dog in the yard; it is not our dog.
I thought we were going from present
to future, the root of light heavy in my

hand. I believe if I'm quiet—what I have
most of is lack, is twilight, is a pond
folded in two catching rain like a funnel.
I stood once on the side of a highway

and waited for the sky so close to curve
away, but it never did, like glass, like saying
goodbye, like how colors rhyme, and I lay down
on the shoulder, clouds like a healer's hands

morphing, hovering, and I opened my mouth.
I mean to be clear: I opened my mouth and wept.

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Copyright © 2020 Gary McDowell All rights reserved
from Colorado Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission