ALL ALONG

For some of us depth of field eventually becomes
Our most important friend
It begins to resemble
The sound of arrows flying by
For some of us green slowly turns into mother
Like sheep in the rain
We know in our heart of hearts
That it's lovely as slow motion

Of everything you changed for me
The most valuable was guessing
There aren't enough windows to frame
How I felt
What was wonderful about it all
Was how nothing we did came near
It never will

I realize now that there aren't enough places
That are halfway
Dogs looking up makes one
The ping of water evaporating is probably another
But surely the best stopover will be
Whenever there are about two minutes left
Because being clear by then shouldn't matter.

--Hiram Larew

LONG LIFE

There was twice the lettuce that year
And work seemed more and more like ice cubes
What wasn't arranged was beautiful
And what was was suet on a branch
Everyone seemed to look longer at each other
Sleep lighter, wake earlier
Some even had a tendency to give away simple gifts
Too often
That were tied with some twine that was really their hearts
It was the kind of year that grandfathers squint at
Flue hit more from the side
And reminded everyone of boiled milk
Everybody shook hands who could
And everyone seemed genuinely surprised

My what was wasted that year
What rolled down the hill for good
What drifted out the window like smoke
It was the kind of year alone
That propped its feet up on tables
That packed coffee and sandwiches in waxpaper
Then drove out to at least a dozen rivers
Some as wide as uncles
And each time every time
Thought of the same face
The very one
The only
Love became a kind of yellowish brown color
And parents finally began to see all that they had done
And couldn't
As it turned out there were almost too many questions
That got answered
Too many important words to remember
Barely enough time to dry out the towels
It happened that
Everything that started that year became a ghost

Maybe there's no time that's perfect
But at least one year more than any other
Should look like a roof from the distance
It was the kind of year that lived without thinking
A year that wanted somehow glorious to know
Whatever was open or handsome
Slowly but surely.

--Hiram Larew