V  P  R

Contemporary Poetry and Poetics





That July day the near smoke rose,
we walked 78th past Cedar and Laurel
and watched the Whittlesey house burn.

One year snow fell taller than I was,
burying every bush: a squeaky white,
a cold, unfillable quiet.

Hills there rolled up on one another.
The ambulance saved the woman bleeding.
Once snagged, the kite never came down.

Leaves underfoot, leaves overhead,
and milk quartz wavery in the creek.
What oiled rock road ever met a knee

it couldn't love?  Run fast enough,
a bee hive can be thrown like a football.
Place is time.


© by Lex Runciman


Contributor's note
Next page
Table of contents
VPR home page

[Best read with browser font preferences set at 12 pt. Times New Roman]