IRENE MCKINNEY

Unthinkable

I am age, I am later,
I’m wider scope, the blue note
in the barn, the sister of hope,
the broad-based axe of dream.
I am time-slotted for relief,
the torn-down home,
the bright angle confused
in the sun, the shirt of pink,
the fragranced wrist, the hub.
Genealogy of nights, the faded
ancient rug. The endless drone
of accumulation, the months
and years stacked up like dice,
like blocks. The going-on,
the going away, diminuendo.
Erosion then, the hanging-on.  

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   Past Lives
   Protection Cord