and stay and raise your hands
and your children's hands later when
I melt into cadenza and we waft hoarsely past these
pinewood rafters, records of starlings—then—
till chance is at last served raw to stirring gods,
till I can’t name the scent of any ripeness
and no longer know what cool water means,
I will needle my eyes into
the position of afterstars. I will make
light trip and sift off sandstone in
the quarries. We have witnessed
too many rutilant past tenses.
Now I shall be the saver of pauses.
We will need breath later.
We erred. Sky should be easier.
I thought this would be different, this looking up.
I thought there would be a granary.
Justin B. Wymer is an English concentrator in Currier House. He completed a thesis in poetry titled Genius Loci. Next year, Justin will be attending the University of Iowa Writers’ Workshop.