By Michael T. Young
Traffic, a crowd, the tide flooding the bay,
whatever will rise and fall, will begin,
then end, forgive each moment for what comes along,
like wind shoving the clouds, and clouds, the day,
like the night calling the sun to come in,
the dream where a brief second is lifelong,
where nothing waits for praises or regret,
but takes as eyes take, gives with the ease of skin—
only so much—yet real as all you know,
that leaves or stays, will sleep and wake, forget,
let go.
From Transcriptions of Daylight, Rattapallax Press, © 2000;
originally printed in The Edge City Review. Reprinted by
permission of the author.
