Meadowthis, and —that, until
Windswept. All this:—what is,
if it can be, expected—love,
the loss of it (or more the realization
that what was thought
to be wasn’t); heat, betrayal, sweat;
what was forgotten until it is remembered
again; regret: if I had known; thirst,
more sweat; the not-so-cute-discovery
about butterflies; the ignored buzz on the phone
about Beirut; a leaf drifting; a door opening,
then closing; the crack of the neck; the distinction
between pleasure and emotion, between hopping

and leaping (unconsidered: how much destination
matters); trash or rather what is considered
trash; a bridge that’s not a bridge but more
something to mark the presence of what appears
to be, though no water is visible, a creek canopied
by cut grasses; the raised palm that remains
red; a woman walking a black dog, a man
in an orange shirt running, another walking; an ant
crawling up my arm and, of course, the wind
claiming whatever it can…
—it all accounts for, all amounts to, what?
So easy to confuse a day for a lifetime.

‍

‍

Note: The poem takes its title from Lorca’s lecture—Play and Theory of the Duende.