ISSUE 2
 

Brian McCabe

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Not One but Another

 

As when a truck rolls past the house and you look

up. Thrushes, the soft pacing of someone preparing

to leave. A number of things you hear

before you see. For a while everything is green

expanse. Moments plunge into air and air.

 

Sometimes I think the things I say

are what you think. Sometimes the things you think

I mean, I don’t. Wanted you to wake in a room

on cool pale sheets and be what’s missing.

For light to fall through tall pines, jagged leaves,

 

to a square of dust on hardwood. The thunder

already a memory: rain on the roof

was sitcom applause, you dressed in dark cloth.

With each day’s arrival your life was becoming

something far off, drawn close.