More of the Day Collapses into this Moment of Waiting for Bread by Arian Katsimbras A woman walks by outside, deep in autumn and fire, blanketed and naked against both sky and asphalt, drags her hips behind her, head crowned with gold and some noise. She wears a coat made of something from misery—wool perhaps—and a band of fabric to drown sideways from neck to wind, like sun scarved with cloud. Her one hand is key; blade, bow, bittings. The other is letter; enveloped, postdated, written in pencil, capped with eraser, skin. I think of her there, at mailbox looking up here, not at mailbox, where I watch bird-like, anxious, clumsy, think of how we might unzip skull, pull the stitches of lip back against word and cursive, abandon forgetting and forgetting. But that’s not the story. The story is that this is not a poem as much as it is thief, lines stolen from memory or kite anchored to anvil of bone, knotted and tied to string tied to you reading this somewhere forward from me now tied to a letter still postdated, still tied to woman, still October, noise, and fire. 92 theMeadow
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