It Must Be Said

It Must Be Said

For, D.A. Powell

Beneath the water-spotted, ten-dollar glass,

in a box surely ripe with lead, smirching eutrophic promise,

surely during the worst windstorm of the past, I’d say, three minutes.

Surely, it must be said.

But who’s to say all the woodsmen and painters of coffins past,

dirt sickening their soles, stomped atop stumps and stray screams-scant,

careful among blossoming dandies as if short-tempered lions or

lioness.

Surely short of patience and short, more or less.

At least mine breathes, a mere eight or nine feet above me, through

carefully slanted slats, separating my silence from the air.

At least I am alive, or so I feel, more or less, deserving.

Beneath the water-stained, eleven-dollar glass,

in a box surely ripe with titanium dioxide,

the landscape doesn’t seem so useless.

Yes, again, my feet beg for travel,

outside of this once, encasing, box.

My feet a guide from boyhood, you’re feet a guide to life.

Surely,

It must be said.