It's Still Life

A Month of Writing Negative Space Poetry

I.
The Luck of Wisdom

wisdom leans against
summer’s open door,
architecture shouldering
his weight.

birds in the pine
sing to him. that knack
of his to speak
their languages,
listen to all they say.

but from a distance
he’s silence.

he adjusts his hat,
gives himself a scratch,
and grins.

“itchy bum —
good luck to come.”

---

II.
Heraclitus’s River

I like to think
Heraclitus’s river
flows past his grave,

travels for miles
through landscapes
and wastelands,

over stone cliffs
into clear pools,

down to the Mediterranean,
that repository
of all rivers,

where he dreamed
luck might let him
wade.