by Tim Kinsella

The wind changes, as subtle and sure
as a train threading a long slow curve
that crosses over the horizon.
Now my mood, come seven come eleven,
is half frivolity, half desperation,
each moment so sure of itself
but not sure of the one before, each thought
like a wine, opening its bouquet.

Most nights the house shudders,
its hunched shoulders ease themselves down.
Your voice from the bedroom
is so calm, so reassuring.
I want nothing about us to change—
that’s my own small tantrum with reality.
And if I squint, everything we know
remains the same, declares itself inevitable.

It’s Monday-follows-Sunday.
These little things we say, we’ve said before,
I’m sure we’ll remember to say tomorrow.
Look, allow me this: for just one evening,
let expectation’s shawl hold us close,
hold our worries far away.
The sun will set in the west,
whether clouds or landscape vary.




Tim Kinsella  lives in southeastern Massachusetts and is an American Sign Language interpreter in community practice. His most recent publication was a poem in the June issue of Ibbotson Street Journal (#39).