by G. Timothy Gordon
I wait for every new dawn, expectant spring,
to exceed itself out of winter gloom,
arrive earlier and brighter each new day,
like a poem une fois perdu, alors trouvé,
with more and more hue after living off
the blank-slate grid for so long, flesh itself
flat-out sui generis from black, then paste
onto blue ether, canvas coat of many colors,
black, blue, pink, rosy roseate, until light
overwhelms it all in an outpouring of love,
known in any tongue, as Neruda knew,
y sin medida como un beso.
G. Timothy Gordon’s eighth book, Dream Wind, is forthcoming (Spirit-of-the-Ram P). His work appears in AGNI, American Literary Review, Cincinnati Review, Louisville Review, and Mississippi Review, among others. G. Timothy’s recognitions include NEA & NEH Fellowships and nominations for Pushcarts and NEA Western States’ Book Awards. He divides his professional and personal lives among Asia, the Southwest, and Maine.