I heard the screen door slam
in my head, not angry, just lazy —
the workaday world suffocates
in the forest, rootless, unable
to press itself on its inhabitants.
Hearing the slow creak of the rusted
spring echo up to higher branches,
mix with the bluejay’s caw,
one might guess early morning,
perhaps dusk. What is important
is not the time, but the in-between,
the truth on both sides, only half.
Rest in the sound of the rusted
spring partly bouncing off the leaves,
the night sky, the morning rush,
the chilled lake breeze if it comes.