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from the January 2004 issue

It’s Not Time For . . .

It's not time for a change.
As long as I can remember
it's never been time for a change.
Like cars that screech to a halt
houses stand
poised in their old breeding ground
of rotten acacia leaves.From ribs that bulge
like knots on a bundle of wet ropes
a faint voice arises, crying, "choose!"
Choose between memory and that peculiar stench. . . .
Choose between clouds and earth.

I tremble like a tree
in a winter storm.

I wait. I don't understand but I wait.
I let life happen, leave the porch lamp lit
through the night
until the clattering of a milk van
in the empty evening street
until pillows are abandoned like salt pits
after a season of low tides.

Read more from the January 2004 issue
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