Little Hour

Rae Gouirand

I think I am not feeling
but I am. Night has stopped simply

feeling like something 
I’ve swallowed, made clean—

I am no longer unclear what it means.

The hills, I go back to them
air I breathe. 

This breeze isn’t feeling me
blue and fluid it bruises the yard

the fabric I hang in 
here again. The year passed 

I have not come round intact— perhaps fallen in 

the end of the day
and the air change, the push

something that cannot be  touched.

Summer was a reverie. A charm: something I believed—

This is where I am where 
I left where I put myself: the house 

nothing. I had it 
in my mouth. No sandy grain it replaced

what I’d been saying. 

You are silent I’ve learned

in the long way. The way space 
clears out for a breeze

I feel vaguely. I live in a town
there are no bells for the little hour—

the long line that forms
takes something for its essing.

In my head you’re still saying
something convincing

in moments I think  
something like wind—

space was holiest  before it stopped blinking.