Friday, February 6, 2015


I don’t think I can find you
here in the darkening afternoon
under the faithless cowlick clouds.
I sense you before I see your face,
before I see the back of your head,
before I see your shoulders slump
and roll up again in sets of 10.
You are exercising your right
to exorcise the tension from your frame.

You are getting shipshape
for a boat that has already sailed.
I have stayed behind hopping
because I do not dare to hope
for anything less or more
than what my body
can perform soloing
on one foot first, then on the other.

© 2014 Barbara H. Moore
A Pressure Press Collection October 2014
Edited by Ron Androla