Almanac
by Clio Krohne
House sparrow, lush coolness
pierces the rush of plucking want.
Watching a wound close up
is like fucking in early June—
fogged windows of faraway winter
look like glasses set down on
an empty desk. Sometimes
it is not the faraway voice
that got you into this
that will get you out. Sometimes it’s
the Now Now Now that pushes you
toward the future, yellowing
wrinkled receipt paper
crushed into a too-small journal.
each time the moment swirls
pink sky, pine-needle-pool evening
around and around me
I can’t help but wonder when
it will pace, a quiet black dog,
through my mind again.