Theory of Continual Drift
All outbound bridges have collapsed.
Mythology is hiding in the milk carton;
religion is the crumbs on my mouth.
Words look backward, and touch
ciliates. Breath is named by the ancients.
I sit in the swing, I find a lighthouse
in the sand. It’s not even worth a phone
call. Conversation departs but everyone
hangs on. If I could ask your name
before you pack all the flat surfaces.
One shattered Dutch oven, a file box of broken
spindles and a splintered set of six red glasses,
rich and crumpled near the mailbox. Where white
petunias, maroon-centered, sit and blink today:
kissed as your face was, as were so many other
incomplete apparitions. My list of all the wonders
missed makes charm of a rustic departure:
one thousand tiger monarchs sinking to the fields.
Twombly’s frantic Leda, the winter palace of Peter
the Great. Carpet wears flat, here in the last
cabin where all the counting happens: how few
folds a flannel shirt deserves; how much touch
can be rough-hewn. How many degrees a curtain
lifts in a breeze from a west-tracing river.
Laurie Saurborn Young is a poet, writer and photographer, and has
worked in factories, in the mental health field, and with hospice
organizations. She holds an MFA from the low-residency program for
writers at Warren Wilson College. As well, she has studied in the
Program for Poets and Writers at the University of Massachusetts,
Amherst, where she also served as Managing Editor for jubilat.
Previous work has appeared or is forthcoming in Bat City Review,
Denver Quarterly, Narrative Magazine, and elsewhere. She lives in
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