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