That an express train may narrowly miss
a crocus
a burned-out bus
a blue mattress
Or: a grimy pair of swans
That the line between true and false
is approximately
two-to-six inches
And, that no one is ever completely innocent
or wholly guilty
And, that to be present is to be indictable:
I do not remember having
that conversation
Also, that things may decline on their own:
onions, sleep, sunlight
The same way a pitcher may be said to possess
a mute witness
in the form of a lemon, its peel
curling across the linen
Therefore
There are always two in a room somewhere
about to pick up their instruments—
violin or flute or oboe
Always, near a window, a letter
about to be read
with disappointing news
Gary Duehr, based in Boston, has taught creative writing for local universities. His MFA is from the University of Iowa Writers Workshop. He has received an NEA Fellowship, and he has also received grants from the Massachusetts Cultural Council, the LEF Foundation, and the Rockefeller Foundation. Journals in which his writing has appeared include Agni, American Literary Review, Chiron Review, Cottonwood, Hawaii Review, Hotel Amerika, Iowa Review, and North American Review. His books include Point Blank (In Case of Emergency Press), Winter Light (Four Way Books) and Where Everyone Is Going To (St. Andrews College Press).