Luray Gross: Epistemology I

Before the concert, the oboe player 

slipped off one red pump

and slid it back on. Then 

her breath filled the space

with plaintive sound. 

.

She sat right in front of us, 

close, yet distant 

as the deer that make their way 

up from the valley while we sleep,

their hooves denting the mossy lawn.

.

And the one that leapt across River Road,

scarcely touching the right fender,

before disappearing into a field—

maimed or not, I’ll never know.

.

Nor will I know, most likely,  

just what brushed against my hand  

as it flew into dusk, its flight

the slightest whirr.

.

I imagine it a perky house wren, 

familiar with us from walks

past the wood’s edge where it forages,

chattering and wagging its saucy tail.

.

How many evenings 

does it nestle in the clothespin bag

hanging at the corner of the shed?

.

This is the world I want,

felt as much as seen or heard.

Nearly held, nearly known.

This world, 

not the implausible next.

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Copyright 2019 Luray Gross. From Lift published by Ragged Sky.