These Gates

this saffron thread set down within

our undistilled winter – unwound

its color, stretched yawning against us.

will we amble, then,

through these gates into a temporary

place; wash our hands of in-transient

things? a singularity of echo rails

against the groundswell,

the urban emptiness un-

disturbed, as if this garden

of brass remains untroubled with these

gates that pass us silently by.

here is a tender billow. the golden

plumb line carefully stretched

to tame a heaving sun. shall we

poke among these relics for lost

things – while the heart

equivocating, unbinds?

you relentless wind, how errant

the breath that twists the cloth – for

a moment hollow as this thin face.

this is no simple thing that whispers,

clamors, waxes an elegy to our divided

hearts. the sabering death rattle of

the clock hand, the keening of a gilded

river, each footstep a moment diminished,

reduced to its barest essential.

© Karekin M Yarian