178
The needle rocks
to its seismic finale.
I peer down
across my morning,
across my belly,
to what it is I measure:
Ligaments churning,
legs and torso leaning,
in the jouncing curb morning
Bared teeth and salutations
at the donut stand
A noon walk by the river
a descent to the brink
to touch the water
and . . .
Pursed lips, salutations,
slow sips at the bar
Ligaments slumbering
legs and torso leaning
away, away in the beveled curb evening
the taste of mozzarella on bread
with tomatoes and oil
the play with dogs on the
living room floor
moving fingers, a cupped hand
plucked strings stretched taught across
a polished wood drum
and an echoing hole.
The winnowing play
of night breeze
near the wet edge of my eyes
as I search out figures in an early Autumn sky.
The shape of this man
just raised from the bed
raised from the floor
little more than an inch
to mount this scale
to measure the weight
of a day just past.
And truth, now come,
in its narrow plastic window:
a number for me
beneath
defined
by a thin red line.