Not One but Another
As when a truck rolls past the house and you look
up. Thrushes, the soft pacing of someone preparing
to leave. A number of things you hear
before you see. For a while everything is green
expanse. Moments plunge into air and air.
Sometimes I think the things I say
are what you think. Sometimes the things you think
I mean, I don’t. Wanted you to wake in a room
on cool pale sheets and be what’s missing.
For light to fall through tall pines, jagged leaves,
to a square of dust on hardwood. The thunder
already a memory: rain on the roof
was sitcom applause, you dressed in dark cloth.
With each day’s arrival your life was becoming
something far off, drawn close.
Brian McCabe was born in New Haven, Connecticut. He lives in New York City, where he teaches high school English. His poems can be found in Harbor Review, Random Sample, Broadkill Review, and Counterclock, among others.