Grove of Meaning

In the middle of September, after everything
we loved had ended, the day remained

a sound pronounced among
emergencies. It was almost

beautiful. A scrawl of voices shook an opposition
through the trees and I believed them.

What is not forgiveable?
Among the black metallic structure

of my language, imperfect
in the present tense, I called to you

across the open grove
and listened. Terror-struck and tethered

to each other, we lived and breathed and were surrounded
by our speaking. The leaves descended

like the inconsistent weather of the law. Our voices
carried them. Ungoverernable, the sun, the sun, the sun

Copyright © 2020 by Nicholas Gulig. This poem appeared in The Volta, Issue 50, December, 2020Used with permission of the author.