This, too, is weather. The air
full, invisibly of messages
that matter so much we encrypt them.
No matter but an echo. Someone else’s
station. Hold still. You may look
at the screen next to yours. The windowsill
in your pocket. Go on.
The horse will trip the shutters, fly.
To capture (an image). To take (a photograph).
Screen grab or shot. A hostage lexicon instead
of sight. I can walk
through air that says running late or
should I bring anything? or yes,
she is. I can wait
longer these days. You may look
tired. The apple on the windowsill.
This natural light, the de rigueur
draping of cloth.
I am learning how to be a witness.
I am learning how to be
a clock. Everywhere, everyone practicing
their talk. Help, angels, make assay.
I am learning how to tick
to you and learning when
to stop. (I’ll bring my bike over on Sunday –
you can help me true the wheel.) Hold
still please. Amid all this. I can
MARGARET B. RAY grew up in Gainesville, Florida, which is neither South Florida nor quite the South. She has been a contributor at the Bread Loaf Writers Conference and the Kenyon Review Writers Workshop, and her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in FIELD, Rattle, American Literary Review, Habitat, and Mortar Magazine. She is currently a poetry MFA student at Warren Wilson College, and she lives in New Jersey, where she teaches high school English and creative writing.