Andrew McCarron
Originally published in The Evergreen Review Issue 115 in 2008.
So much of the time, I exaggerate.
The great is only good. The terrible,
Downplayed, or dropped from
The story altogether. And nothing—
Nothing is said about words exhausted
At the Sidewalk with Sam and Lois.
But sometimes, a soon-to-be-night sky
Descants itself into being much more
Than expected. To hear hope’s angel
Alone is one thing; but to witness
Them singing with you was almost
Too much: goat-ragged hills, lavender,
Hawks circling oaks, which rip up
To the sun—through whose columns
Finches fluttered, “My sister. My brother.”
The great is only good. The terrible,
Downplayed, or dropped from
The story altogether. And nothing—
Nothing is said about words exhausted
At the Sidewalk with Sam and Lois.
But sometimes, a soon-to-be-night sky
Descants itself into being much more
Than expected. To hear hope’s angel
Alone is one thing; but to witness
Them singing with you was almost
Too much: goat-ragged hills, lavender,
Hawks circling oaks, which rip up
To the sun—through whose columns
Finches fluttered, “My sister. My brother.”
