by Stacie Leatherman
Postcard from Idleness
So what, so what anything,
because beautiful, because why not,
because it should or should not be
ventured
says the zealot
between Novembers.
Postcard from the Fire Drill
Yesterday holds together
like a pup dozing loose
in the arms.
Rust theories
fly through absent corridors.
Winter darkness shines like a bell.
Look at the moon, says yesterday’s Aaron.
Coatless, both of them.
The commonality of love,
its steady, durable pain and sweetness,
buttons itself to various skies.
Stacie Leatherman is the author of two books of poetry: Stranger Air (Mayapple Press) and Storm Crop (BlazeVOX Books).