Vincent Spina: Bottle

The immeasurable morning was back again;
the greater and lesser catastrophe, leaving
its wake of pain, now slept
in the kitchen alcove waiting for day
to give it a proper sendoff,

that we might survive again
having captured a small wave of time
and made it safe in a bottle. With this

and because you are a frequent walker
through cemeteries where stone epitaphs
speak a language of flowers, I text you now:

One night by midnight
the quieting moon had risen across
the dream-mined prairie. All the loving
and decorative corpses—she among them—
had settled into memory. Living
in this less pure space, swallowed within
the unbreathing, unspeaking white eternal,
we spoke for a little while of

Sunday brunches: movies ending
in cliches, simple enough
for all to understand. Rivers,
for instance. Don’t forget
how we all loved rivers.

Copyright 2017 Victor Spina

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