On Generosity for Donald Revell
The field recomposes itself, yellows and greens, the time it takesit takes, stems of black walnut fronds, thin as salmon-ribssoon-enough gone, I am writing this again, I thinkthe field is there, a slip of a finger, and it is thee,a siren creases the air, calls us to the emergencies — whenthis morning what I thought was gone, came through the airand paused before the veronica and sage, oh, there is hopein this field, as it composes into its moment of generosity,generous for memory, what steadily slips, the flowers that linethe path, what are they now, argue the composition of color,is it the hue, or is it the name we have for it, or fraying opticnerves, dulling, too much wine, or just the years of sun…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, March/April 2025