John James
Awareness of Time
When it pounds the shoulders of a working man
the sun becomes extravagant. White appears as absence
only to the naked eye. First there is love, then time.
Last dance of a body allowing me air, arrogant
as a king snake writhing in the grass. It leans in the wind,
small leaf augmented by an awareness of time.
We learn the intricacies of a leaf by the mind's
dismantling—each plume a veined ornament
only the heart knows. I insist there's still time.
Water scooped into the palm adapts to the hand’s contour.
It molds and reshapes itself, attempting to mime
each alteration of the skin. The pattern is the same every time.
Each day when I woke to her in my bed struck me
differently. I never got used to her hair tangled
in the crease of my mouth, though in time I thought I might.
In the garden the burning calls of an intricate child
well up like sunrays over the brick. I hear one wail
then another, undulating, and I can’t ignore them this time.
