by Barry Silesky

The answer I want blows amid scraps drifting like an idea that keeps returning or a prayer for another beginning, lost in the debris. I want the universe that is that language to continue through icy air, the blizzard the news predicts that brings back the chainsaw, burning oak, the woman who loved me, snow white and white and blowing. The picture doesn’t explain the music; notes flashing across neurons I can’t see. But the thing I never realized must be waiting. Mail fills the box, and I want to believe I’ve found the end, but the story is barely started. The war goes on, explosions I don‘t hear kill more, and I can only wait. Often It took several boats to get a whale, they say, of the men gathered on the sea. Call it divine; I’m supposed to believe.