by Alex Dimitrov
The living looking for eternity
don’t know eternity is brief.
A favorite thing about being alive
or other questions no one asks me,
and it would be knowing people.
Knowledge through time.
What’s the name of that hour in the day
where no matter our planned futures
everything is full of nothing
as the world is full of people
without reason other than small chance.
You are tired and most singular
in the middle of the afternoon
when seeing you on the street
(and not in a bedroom) reminds me you’re real;
allowing me to begin the rest of this poem.
Because life isn’t enough
which is unbelievable to the fog, sea,
or anything lucky to be
without our incurable consciousness.
Vanishing. A once orange leaf that’s been
left in a book. The silver handles
of the casket as it’s lowered into the earth.
People’s mistakes. Dark matter.
The sky just before evening.
One boat in the Atlantic.
A handful of balloons going all the way up.
The few places in the world where it’s raining
as you read this. As I write this.
As I read this out loud and somewhere
what is expected does not return.
The last lamp in an old house.
How I’m not sure if I’d like to end on an image
of someone turning it off, turning it on.
Silences. Between the waves and beneath them.
People’s mistakes. People’s mistakes.
Published on September 22, 2017