You asked “Where does time go once it’s happened?”
Sam Goundry Butler
Yours is a drowning voice,
your body of ribs
and elbows feeling
for the world’s knuckle,
the pool’s edge, shelf
of solid words over
the swill of sound.
That’s you being made
in the drowning, lungfuls
of questions, floundering
to stone. We don’t dance
anymore, but sometimes
your hand still grasps for the lapping
edge of things.
