February 6, 2018


February 6, 2018

Today every song is a diary of lost dates,
moments cured in precision

and stowed away on a train to the next town,
always yearning the beyond, around that precious bend.

Or, a funeral for tomorrow, processing the improbable
present. Lights, flickering. The starling’s first peep.

All urgency dies. Outside, leaves float in the fog
as I drive away to a finite point.

Now, a whistle mourns the day’s broken
surge; never having said goodbye, you move on.


* * *

“February 6, 2018” was published in the North Dakota Quarterly in February 2019.


15 thoughts on “February 6, 2018

  1. Sensing that NOTHING is random in your poems, I am puzzling over this title … is this a response to something significant I’ve managed to block from awareness … ?? Or the date you wrote a poem that feels almost universal?? Each day of every year brings its own “fog” obscuring clarity – yet we depart into the fog again and again. The older I get, the more often “that precious bend” longed for is behind me, inaccessible via body or mind, just a haunt …

    Liked by 2 people

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