The void was a unit of darkness, our bodies an instant, a clap.
By and by the water shook, no, trembled, on the verge of tears.
The leaves had no destination.
My face doesn’t tell the time, but everything was cornered, like a lawn.
To the left, a deliberate flaw, to the right, a bent flower,
I’ve found what I was looking for.
Tree-diagrams helped explain the forest:
Her eyes, longing over the couch,
And her hands, Their beautiful dexterity didn’t tell the time.
She left trailing the scent of mimosa, mimos. . .
Summer’s salt-laden mist was turning to tears as we spoke.
by Cath Vidler
published in Concelebratory Shoehorn Review
*previously published in Turbine ’06