By Patrick T. Reardon
See and see: Each time passes.
Journey is taken. River runs.
Green brittles. Tall withers. Sun is blind.
Blood dries to grit. Clock locks.
I line my dashboard with communion
of saints, each action figure holier than
I, driving west down Ecclesiastes Road,
listening to sacramental noise of wind
through open windows, liturgical sweat,
no expectation of revelation whisper,
itch to make distance, cover ground,
miles to go before miles to go, across
flatland to blank-face mountain, never
to be reached.
Remember now. Rains come and go.
Clouds remain. Strong men bend.
Girders are ground. Doors are shut.
Voice of bird has no music.
Desire fails. Bowl shatters. Spirit dust.
Some day, I will
breathe out my
Patrick T. Reardon
This poem was originally published in the 2019 Adelaide Literary Award Anthology, published 4.24.20.