That summer our desires were poltergeists
thrashing under the bed and going bump
in the night. The suburbs springing up
around us, the frames like rib cages planted
in fields, and us inside shivering the timbers
clean. We wake up and the horizon's changed:
drywall, sod, chimneys, the earth is building
towards the sky. We know wheat as a ghost,
a promise of the body's harvest blooming,
we know these fields like the crook of a finger
beckoning. Like apprentices stripping bolts
in the dark, the plumbing and wires exposed.
We know if we come back from some far-away
maturity the beams will be homes with glass and doors,
the skyline stamped with shingles. Everything
will be formed. We'll be wiser and full and tired
and the being whole will scoop us out, the stone
bowl of the sun will rise and rise. We can't know
what will appear outside the fingerprints and oaths
we streak inside ourselves and that's enough.
But we know something of making, looped
inside this rough sketch of ourselves speaking
its own name to the evening. I know of loss,
that I'd return and know more of me, but less.
MATT MUTH is the co-founder and Editor-in-Chief of Pacifica Literary Review. His poems have appeared here and there, most recently in Rattle, and he teaches English courses at a technical college for video game designers in Redmond WA. He lives in Seattle and is a solid beer league hockey player.