BY DANE HAMANN.
No dusk snaps its possibilities back
from the fire. No dawn tapers its doorway
to finger width. It’s living that cuts back
the fields of us. Hours full of ritual,
full of desire in knots of wildflowers.
We fail to grasp them all. Not that we try
anyway, too busy wearing the patterns
of the wind into the soles of our feet.
Sometimes it seems there's only one pathway
through the fields. I’ve left so much in the slick,
trampled grass that all I can think to do
is blame the minutes themselves. I spoke of
this once to you. But the clock kept moving.
Fire burning. I kept running into the wind.
Dane Hamann works as an editor for a textbook publisher in the southwest suburbs of Chicago. He received his MFA in Creative Writing from Northwestern University, after which he served as the poetry editor of TriQuarterly for over five years. His chapbook Q&A was published by Sutra Press. He can be found online at www.danehamann.com and on Twitter at @donnyhamms.