Thursday, February 25, 2010

Hollow Day

O that is empty,
the scooped orange skin,
the nut eaten, caste
on its back, gutted,

the space between lines,
the day that draws water
in drops that catch sunlight
in bubbles, clear and unafraid,

before the gift card fell
open to the ink marks
the pen said were from
the girl whose hair tie

was too bright on the old
dresser against the back
wall of the bedroom
she'd just left,

where the gold band
lay shining, casting
hollow shadows in the room,
just as the lunch whistle

blew at the shipyard,
and his front door closed.


(c)Nancy Powell          2007
from How Far Is Ordinary

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