one light on

in the room,


a violin from a log.

I realize it’s not

the wood or the blade

but the longing

I need.




Without its pull

my spine would shatter.

Like water or air

I could collapse

with ease.




I loved her, the

one in the framed

photograph by the

candle, but

like the sweater

in the bottom drawer

it will never fit again

and never come back

in style.




All day, the television

informed me of

unemployment in America

and explosion

after explosion

somewhere else in the world.




The sky is as

red as an open sore

and darkness is

leaking on the window.

I think of goodness

when I see the sawdust

on my lap

and the floor,

not yet disturbed

by the four horsemen

and their dull stampede.


—     Timothy Herrick

—     1996, copyright held by author