The Book of An Hour
How endless an hour seems compared to a proportionless forever.
In the realm of a poem only words are native.
Rain. Clouds like ravens’ coats. A brawl of water over rocks.
The past is a book left out in the rain: ink blurs, pages fuse together.
Although the two deer are gone, their shadows hold on in the wet grass.
You know the story---a thread slips from a needle’s eye.
---Eric Pankey
---found in Crow-Work (2015)