by Doug Ramspeck
If long-legged morning fell through glass,
I woke to the persisting marriage. You can say
the hemmed-in stars were nightingales.
You can say the grass that summer grew a small psalm through
a fissure in the sidewalk. Once you opened your eyes
beside the same person for forty years.
Once the bones inside the earth sang
so quietly you almost couldn’t hear them. I woke
and there were decades of birds crossing
and uncrossing a distant sky. I woke and there were
shadows by the window, stains that wanted to be X-rays
that wanted to be caverns that wanted to be human lungs.
If there was breath in the air, if sheets slipped or rustled,
if movement of any sort shuffled into endurance, it must
have been another earthly meditation.
Doug Ramspeck is the author of five poetry collections. His most recent book, Original Bodies, was selected for the Michael Waters Poetry Prize and is forthcoming by Southern Indiana Review Press.