Issue 45, 2008
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—
“November Elegy” by Mary Jo Bang
November is more of the usual
November. Sheets of rain
Cut into tidy rectangular grays.
Ghostly sections of cemetery pall.
The cymbal of morning secretary
To each idiomatic new day.
I wake up and go walking.
From the front of my mind I see a garden
With a half-living yellow lily
A pinkish-rose rose,
A deadheaded daisy.
Personal history is fiction but in spite of that
There are those simple elements
Of a singular experiment.
To say the minute is manufactured
Inside a clock, what does that mean?
That time is nothing more
Than a lame recomposed, after the fact,
Potential? Silence takes no as an answer.
