Fool’s Gold by Anna Knowles

Bring back my town.
You drive I listen
and wait for permission
from undisturbed
roads returning like blood
to remind me how the pines brown.
Bring back the pavement
so soft from wear blurring
down the driveway from your house
holding its breath, sun still
in the sky though it’s late.
Bring back
this pyrite from this basket,
clutch the glean like backwater
in a dreamed-for city, bring
me right back, sitting
on the edge of the sink
of your own kitchen
like stacked plates.
Bring back the daylight folds
like the unclaimed napkins
beneath this rock I will forget
to put in its right place,
bring back the grasp
that lasts then wears
lasts then wears
with every shut car door
that outlives us both.
What should I expect
if not for the right steps
repeating themselves
as evening comes on.

 

About Anna Knowles

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