by Jeff Hardin

I could give
my horizon,

the one I see
on cheekbones,

or I could give
how a gravestone

is armless
and can’t do anything

to hold back
a soul.

And then there are
those doodlings

my child leaves everywhere,
almost-words

in some new language
I have to

lay on my stomach
to read.

If I could give away
the woman’s fingers

sauntering through
the organ’s tones,

I’d also give
my last three steps

in creek shallows,
how cool my feet felt

in silt.
But who wants

wayward things,
the bricklayer’s humming,

the sandcastle’s lean,
the thimble of air,

the two rowboats
side by side

bumping against
one another

as if in sleep?

*This piece may not be archived, reproduced or distributed further without the author’s express permission.