Under these circumstances, I’ll have to settle for here,


where the telephone poles lean
at their angles, at least twenty five
degrees, over county road thirty two.
Summer isn’t a time for play it’s a time
for playing at forever, when the shadows
love to stand up in the morning
and take so long in their laying down
at night. The fields here are so
aimlessly gold you imagine horses
and sometimes you don’t even have to,
they’re just there, as soft and sick and
overwhelmed by their names as you had
imagined they could be. Somewhere,
there’s a pair of sentences that someone
imagines is saving his life. Somewhere,
perhaps the same where, there’s a forest,
resplendent and not too obviously green,
where snow will fall, but not yet.


Anthony DiCarlo