Paul Meier reading
An Evening Question
by Alan Harris
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Blackbirds crackle random sonic pepper under fading skies at end of day when silence brings more pain to birds than sounds held in can bear. Up west, three backlit afterclouds, blue-gray, suggest a breathless blessing, outer sky to inner eye. Two robins try antiphony positioned fence to fence and trade their choruses across a subtlety of dew. Overhead, a helicopter's growl subdues the singing birds who observe a silent minute waiting for the bully to be gone. Next door, the dog barks out his being at something heard or felt and with each bark a girl shouts "Shut up!" until he does. A cat comes walking by, surprised at me, too close, but quickly taking care to show no fear. Quietly alert, I stare across this outdoor table-- top all strewn with wings of maple seeds delayed from reaching earth-- and I bow within. My breath amazed at simple dusk, I fold in half, and half, and half, until there's hardly any I. This enigmatic sky now closing day with fake finality while straddling yin and yang abstains from answering my wordless evening question. |
From the book Flies on the Ceiling (1999)
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(Paul Meier)
(Alan Harris)
by Alan Harris. All rights reserved.