by John Glenday
This is the formula for the fall of things:
we come to a river we always knew we’d have to cross.
It ferries the twilight down through fieldworks
of corn and half-broken sunflowers.
The only sounds, one lost cicada calling to itself
and the piping of a bird that will never have a name.
Now tell me there is a pause
where we know there should be an end;
then tell me you too imagined it this way
with our shadows never quite touching the river
and the river never quite reaching the sea.