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If we could go back and forth. If we could stand on the platform
with the summer ahead of us. If the small car
should renew itself and the road retrieve the journey
the obedient trees retreat, reconfigure, sweep
down again to welcome us. The tin roof
why not, falls back on the old shop
a cold stream fills the bucket. It sways in the hand
spilling drops on the grass like a toll. Wherever
you look fills up and sways, the details
slip to their places. Everything is convinced. Inside
is the ache of furniture, the dreaming
bone-handled knives, blue willow dramas.
The meal is ready, the fêted guests tuck in. My hands
fly through the years, touching everything.

7

  

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