The Problem of Landing
____________________________________

Light smoothed across us, across the bed,
into the fields—light with the corners
tucked in beyond the trees.

Flecks of news rise off the fire—
blown back to the air—disembodied time?
Take the small fist of a letter,

poke at it, open its hand,
change the word. How do we project?—
like the air in a flame. And trains

slip past deserted rooms,
the water tower fills and empties—
long-unappreciated lung. Notice the cross

on the window’s open heart,
and oh, how soon the tomatoes are reddening.
Out in the fields, there’s nothing

but light—I found my way home
by its endless projection. If my past is flight
and my present is landing,

I must never quite touch the ground,
and how can this be? The street
like a long blank tape, passing carlights

through the car’s glass skin.
Not all surface, not all substance—
clouds drifting through a pale blue sky

in the shop windows on Main Street,
or see how the cornstalk tips
make a ground above the ground—

 

From Only the Senses Sleep by Wayne Miller, 2006

New Issues Poetry & Prose, Western Michigan University, Dept. of English,
1903 W. Michigan Ave., Kalamazoo, MI 49008-5331
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