He’s an idea dimmed. I think
he was. I knew his heat.
His grip on me a boulder
wedged mid-tumble to
the canyon floor ever
since the Pleistocene.
He was my inspiration
once, my lungs and river
fish and finny creatures
my flapping, gaping instant,
as devilish as rapids.
He was my inspiration
once, my air and rising—
all that’s yeasty yearning,
dense and as daring as
the regularity
of planets darting past us
all a-squat
with heads up-tilt in wonder.
Those stars. Those bright ideas.
___
Kim Suttell is currently the poet-in-residence in apt. 3B, an honorary position, to be sure. Some of her poems reside in Right Hand Pointing, Penny Ante Feud, Geist, The Cortland Review, and other journals, all neatly compiled at page48.weebly.com.
