Shown to be a slice of particular measure
framed as construct, named
as hour or minute. In the hands of the man
at roof’s edge, maybe paper
with mundane word, or gospel
or small white field.
Do birds take notice or mimic
curiosity? The man might have forgotten
the weight of bread crusts. Never
fed the birds, studied wings, or cared to.
Ribbed clouds skim to the east.
He is counting now, silently.
Numbers will fall, too, and become nothing.
The time spent contemplating.
The decision. The time spent going down.
Mercedes Lawry has published poetry in such journals as Poetry, Nimrod, Prairie Schooner, Poetry East, Natural Bridge, and others. Thrice-nominated for a Pushcart Prize, she’s published two chapbooks, most recently Happy Darkness. She’s also published short fiction, essays and stories and poems for children. She lives in Seattle.