Worry

The feminine form

in the curved hips of the blue hills.

In the autumn tree stepping out of its dress.

Call the day quiet. Ordinary.

The motor conks where the domicile

sort of whirrs into place.

Spare wind part list and lazy chime.

The raspy energy of the mechanical thistle.

Tight old anger of the deadbolt

nearly bending the brass key.

Call the day ordinary. Bright as marble.

Unshadowing to a kind of soft line.

Not a single thing out of sorts

but the window. In it

a contrail burns toward

the bright bang of the sun.

Beside the sweep of the round clock

or the round clock beside the bedroom door.

Curved hips of the feminine form

stirring beneath blue covers.

The bright echo

she cannot catch with her hands.

A rag doll dance partner

she marches around the floor.

Not so much translation but to and fro.

In the lean. In the lean of her spine.

Not a single thing out of sorts

but the window. The clear view.

This poem appears in the 2005 Anthology
View all poems by Daniel Gutstein