At the End of the River Was a Voice and Another
William Auten
Charlie Meehan
One eye keenly fixed
on the half-light
that clouds tickle and taunt.
I liked those times
sitting on the rocks
at shores edge;
days were an inch,
the night miles of inching
closer to day.
I liked those days
when nothing quite locked;
my confusion kept
on the verge of knowing
clouds have no idea they’re clouds.
Winter’s knock
is the voice that nobody
wants to answer. In truth,
it’s just cold and cloudy;
so much is unexplained
in its intrepid, melting snow.
I imagine drawing winter,
but a pencil isn’t fierce enough
to capture branches stripped
to nothing. Perhaps I should draw
the way words feel cankerous
after too long in the mouth
or I wouldn’t, perhaps couldn’t.
Well, there are other mysteries:
remember, we weren’t anyone.
And then that changed
and changed again.
We built a story to char the mind
and placed it in a book
never to be opened.