a Golden Shovel after Kenneth Rexroth

​

by Sheila Sondik

​

​

Hard to remember there was a time

when the time there was was

enough. On Sundays I

did the crossword and walked

across slippery cobblestones in

an ivied city. That February

was icy and April brought rain.

 

I return there in my

dreams. They roil in my head

when the moon and Jupiter are full.

Do you need more proof of

the sleeping organ’s industry its

drive to manufacture its own

music based on the rhythms

of the marches we learned to like?

My brain, traveling snugged in a

skull, a walnut wrinkling in its shell.