April Dusk, Wassergass

Dull pewter light on the pond
with the green shadows of trees
     across the road,
the sky one big pewter cloud
it’s hard
               to look straight into,
all that glare that says
there’s more light up there
                   than we can bear,
which makes me remember Matthew’s
The lamp of the body is the eye,
even as I feel mine burning,
spring allergies, I’d thought,
the pollen and dust,
the long days of sun holding on,
one minute more,
                   then another
till it’s eight o’clock,
my wife and I still out on the patio
     with a little talk
as the darkness filters in,
the spruce and fir and hemlock
     then the barn,
                   then part
of her face turned up toward the hill,
her shoulder, arm, my leg, foot, bit
     by bit
till we’re nothing but voices,
and most of the time not even that.

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