i moved::the road is dry and crusty the rains come in the spring and the birds the leaves
let go this hand the burning::a seat five feet from your right next to each other this leaf
falls for hours the sound of a cricket once::tall grasses brushed::let go this hand the
burning::the funny thing is::a daisy is your favorite they grow here::and let go this hand
the burning::the words are ferry water shore button cow and sun::an olive covered with
white wine::the space between beef and cow a matter of taste and cigarettes::let go this
hand the burning::face the crowd straight a show of grace::in this city there is in this city
there is in this city there is::rain on these stones::little red thing when humor collides::an
“what is in front of us” is printed here today with permission from the poet.
Andrew Wessels has lived in Houston, Cambridge, and Las Vegas. Currently, he splits his time between Istanbul and Los Angeles. His poems can recently be found in or are forthcoming from VOLT, Handsome, Fact-Simile, and 580 Split. He is editor of The Offending Adam.
Editor’s Note: Today’s poem is going somewhere but it knows how to sit still. In the country, suspended in an almost hyperreal act of attention where a leaf takes hours to fall, the moment is elongated with descriptions of tall grasses and the brisk chirp of a cricket. Time almost stops until it rushes forward with the feverish repetition of “let go this hand the burning,” fiercely propelling us out of reverie, out of the city, toward “an open door.”