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Three Weeks from Two Days Ago

Waiting is the moon, waiting the groom

in the little boy. The red minute waits

in the white afternoon, the dream in the daylit

consciousness. Is god what’s waiting

to hear back, we the message sent out

into the void? You wait for something to appear

but in most cases the opposite is true,

wait long enough it’s all gone, the year’s

preparatory nubs on the weeping pussy willow,

pregnant woman in the airport taxi queue

reading a book of names. Alphabet

to be rearranged into the spelling of your name

just as you rearranged me so I thought

let’s have lunch in a tree, winter already

spring, bells to drink champagne from.

I couldn’t wait to see you again

so tried to warp space-time

with sexual energy alone, what a joke,

especially over the phone, sorry.

Slower the shorter days go, the pool

closed a month ago, goldfinches gone

from the coneflowers, coneflowers

brown bent low, hardly any need to mow,

it’s cold, it snows, just a few crab apples

left on the bare tree to ferment so spring

returning waxwings can get drunk enough

to almost touch as I am almost touching you

not wanting to wait.

from Fall HigherFind it in the library

Copyright © 2011 Dean Young
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.

Published in Dean Young Poems

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