By Robert Okaji
And all of our losses,
fallen like acorns to be gathered and
buried for safe keeping in the hours
when laughter fails and eyes close.
My blood is a tense whisper
and I remain half, which is of course
false. You drift across the scuffed
boards and light the candle,
snuffing one darkness, sparking
a second, opening a new quiet behind
yet another shade. What blurs
yesterday more than tomorrow?
Accepting my place, I observe the unlighted
corner, look for movement, wait.
Robert Okaji no longer lives in Texas, where he once won a goat catching contest. The author of five chapbooks, his work has appeared or is forthcoming in Dormiveglia, Vox Populi, Ethel, Slippery Elm and elsewhere.