Felt Implied Sweet Promise

Thankful for the covering a cold
can bring – tending to its viral
spirits wafting into, through me
like the incense in a church – loving
this communion with the January
almost-dusk-light, shadows
perching at the windows, once again
just always out of reach, but with

some felt implied sweet promise
that the breach between me and its lit
translucent mysteries will one day,
not too long from now (for nothing
is too long from now), be bridged –
I now beseech the long, preliminary,
floating and subsidiary introduction
of a clause to which I’ve just

subjected us, to take its place as
guiding verse, so to reverse
and lead me back, away, towards
the living outline of the angles
of the city’s trees and buildings:
backwards, as if the beginning
of this poem were its end, and its
ending were its start. I want

to turn time into new uncharted loops,
and watch it scoop and bend,
and go with it wherever it will
take me back beyond its genesis,
before, before, before the world
and my participation in it gathered
all its heavy lore: to back off
from the fight, and only be the light.



.