Tall Tale of Short Hours, by Amy Hollowell

(On the occasion of the second Rewords anniversary)

I think I am beside myself in slithers
Of light, pervasively rattling on
With a tall tale of short hours.
But I am not. The city
A newly old world, this endless story
Of what I see
Is impossible to construct
In inverted pyramid style.

I have tried not to feel
The pinch elevated
Or sometimes furrowed
Underground at the back of my extended courtyards.

It can’t be helped
Not white or black tonight
A Marlboro and Coke at the next table
Must include leaves skittering
Dead on the walk in liquid sun
And even long past
Early night under the plane trees
No one pauses to look
Or hear what empties,
The life of the mind rampant
In the boulevard of limbs
Quietly moving on.