The Draft
All memories ignite, he says, recalling
the odor of accelerants and charred
friends. Yesterday I walked to the sea
and looking into its deep crush
sensed something unseen washing
out, between tides and a shell-cut foot,
sand and the gull’s drift, or the early names
I assign to faces. This is not sadness.
Somewhere the called numbers meet.
* * *
“The Draft” first appeared in Taos Journal of International Poetry & Art.
O at the Edges 
Thought-provoking, Robert. I am reminded of the number of classmates we lost during our teen years – stupid acts. It’s haunting, really, like your poem.
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Thanks, VJ. The losses seem to be never ending.
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Don’t they! You are welcome.
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I love this poem, both open and deep, both elegaic and hopeful (that last line!) – what you accomplish in so few lines, Bob!
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Sometimes simple lines coalesce into something better than expected! 🙂
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Powerful reading – your voice adds dimensions to “sadness”
I sense that those “gone” are elsewhere, meeting/mingling in various ways that defy my comprehension – spark my curiosity (dare I say wanting to join them?) re how they reflect on the ones they left behind. Do you suppose some poems have arrived from “elsewhere” having been whispered forth seeking receptive ears/heart to reiterate the message?
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I, too, am curious, though I’m not anxious to join them yet. I’ve wondered where those poems come from, especially those that emerge almost whole. And quickly. Who knows?
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