One Hour, October

Devaney, Tom

Time was never a turn-on the way it is with you.

Please know I distrust poetry and everything I say is wrong.

The errors of my most ambitious attempts make me laugh.

It should be embarrassing to share such a secret.

I hardly even try since I know this. A photograph might show

all that is hot and beautiful on Sundays before winter.

A poem continues, “The early winter sky, hazel with one low star.”

How unrushed the rush. A plodding novel remains still

for several pages taking its time (in the way novels can) to listen

to the skyscraper actually swaying in the wind.

A team of engineers worked out the math sixty-five years ago,

the paintings still have to be straightened every morning.

The compression, a down wearing less and less make-up

till the day the silence says your name.

She gets on a bus, he walks away, it’s all off-camera, it’s that big.

Copyright World Poetry, Incorporated Mar/Apr 2002

Provided by ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved

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