*******And the mud again
*******ripped open

*******at the seams, silver
*******in afternoon’s glow-

*******ering shine.  Sunday
*******slowly implodes

*******into itself:  the hollow
*******of a vowel humming

*******under the surface
*******we strain to pull

*******our voice—
*******a voice—through.

*******We’ve endured
*******a certain dormancy
*******
*******and arrived in time
*******(out of time) to say it.

*******To imagine we’ve
*******said it, that it

*******could be enough.

***

Joseph Massey is the author of Illocality (Wave Books) and At the Point (Omnidawn), as well as many other books and chapbooks. He lives and writes in the Pioneer Valley of Massachusetts.