Like Wire Through Sandstone
by Barry Ballard


My neighbor wishes my hand would open
like an unnamed star, that when I ask, "How's
your daughter doing. How are you holding up,"
he'll feel the orbit of uncharted space
and the tip of a pale young moon dragging thin
wires of light through sandstone. The burned-out
neurons have already etched the limestone bluffs
along the river, whispered across her face.

Later he stands silent, hands in his pockets,
knowing the morning's reflective dew will
never bring brightness (no universe
transiting tonight). Tomorrow has harnessed
its own seasons: its child-like uncontrollable Will;
the tugging at a father's jacket, begging for a kiss.






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