Evening: the glass is just half, the history
is half,
the grass is green only in patches
and the hills stand up hunched
like people waiting in line—
behind one cloud, a mountaintop
like a tooth—
and a man arrives home
after so many years.
Beyond the mountaintop
the crossing light of the evening
cuts the air
and he can see his leaving
in the cups his hands form
above the brow.
He answers no questions but his own
and if he wanted
he could be anyone.
___________________________________________
[this poem, in largely different fashion, originally appeared in the Spring 2007 issue of Lilies & Cannonballs]
