Someone Face Like The Sun
Was On Our Porch Last Night
Matthew Johnstone

Spray of town.

Geography's retention
in its lean.

Some shadow as
the rest of me.

*

Go into the morality of the

land.

Raise up, and
lean away,

pack the body.

Evenings I remember

thinking this is winter of now.

*

Still the plaza,

cornered brightly until
such brightness as there have
your eyes gone to.

*

Wildness toward which

I advance,

I'm learning
to play the pickax.

Chased across the country,

a thing fully developed is

inadequately revealed.

*

The scaffolds shake in
a constant movement

of wrists.

1996 © 2011