April 30, 2013

The World is of Glass. Disappearance is Within Us by James Owens

These summer evenings of low clouds and heat,
the lake goes milky in the last minutes before sunset,

light clinging to the waves as the world darkens.
I don’t recognize myself in my joys. My emptiness glows….

One of the words in the dream was your name.
Unlike the others that broke open in the air

and melted like strange hail,
your name was a small red stone

shot through with silken glimmers of quartz,
still wet where it had washed on the sand.

On my palm, it seemed to tremble, but maybe
that was my pulse. Your name smelled of the deep water.

I closed it in my mouth, happy
with its small weight on my tongue.
 


James Owens divides his time between central Indiana and northern Ontario. Two books of his poems have been published: An Hour is the Doorway (Black Lawrence Press) and Frost Lights a Thin Flame (Mayapple Press). His poems, reviews, translations, and photographs have appeared widely in literary journals, including recent or upcoming publications in The Cortland Review, Poetry Ireland, The Cresset, and The Chaffey Review. He walks in the dunes along the southern shore of Lake Michigan and watches the waves and the gulls.

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