This Isn’t the End
The window is across the room
at the end of the aisle
when I breathe
through the window
there’s nothing in my car
I don’t even notice
my breathing
across the room
when I’m lifting
myself up
or dropping down
at the end of the aisle
either way there isn’t anything
I’m not afraid
of loving
Tapping on the bottom
of my empty cart
like a song
I don’t even know
the words to
The window across the room
cools me off
I don’t even notice
my breathing
is complete
At the end of the aisle there’s nothing in my cart
I’m opening my mouth to breathe across the room
I can’t think of anything I’m not afraid of
Tapping on the outside to see if it’s empty inside
It’s not the kind of completeness you don’t need to pay attention to
I Think I’m Getting Stronger When I’m Weak Enough
If I’m weakening
It’s probably an error
When I’m not weak enough
Or there’s a weak spot
I’m babying for instance
I’m dropping my objections
When they’re not even weak enough
Or not as weak as anyone else’s
Not even pretending I’m weaker than I am
Not making a fist
Or taking my pocket knife
Out of my pocket
That’s not what I mean
I don’t want to give you the impression
That I’m not strong enough
Is it a strong impression?
Sometimes I think I’m holding on
To my weakness like a stronghold
When I’m weak enough
Or just as weak
I’m strapping on my headlight
And sticking my flashlight into my pants
To shine a light on my weakness
In pictures at the time
I’m staring straight ahead
Greedily as if I want to eat the viewer.
The Dying Day Doesn’t Belong to Me
I’m touching the air
With my lips
Leaning into the air
When it’s closer to me
Than anything that doesn’t belong to me
Not breathing deeply
Or letting my breath
Get in the way
Not even saving a place
There isn’t a place for dying
When I lift my lips
And breathe through my mouth
Personally I’m not looking for anything
That doesn’t belong to me
Or apologizing when it doesn’t belong to me
As long as it’s dying
It doesn’t even matter
If it doesn’t belong to me
When I Reach for Something I’m Not Holding On to Anything
I’m lifting up my hands
like a glowstick
reaching in a circle
that reaches back to
before I reach for anything
I often think everything
I’m reaching for
is right next to something
I’m not even reaching for
Not worrying about anything
I’m not reaching for
or picking anything
to reach for
As long as I’m reaching
I’m not even holding on to anything
I’m reaching for
I actually think everything I’m not
holding on to leads to something else
I’m reaching for
as in a story you keep reading
in order to read
another story
Not even turning around
to reach for something
that’s not in front of me
or reaching into anything
inside or inside out
as in a story
that continues in another story
Sometimes I think I’m reaching for something
nobody else is reaching for
or nobody can reach
I’m not holding on to it
Sacrifice
When you don’t know what the deal is
Or if there’s a deal
Nobody’s saying it’s a deal
Even if it looks like a deal
Or has the flavor of a deal
When there’s a deal
There are sacrifices on both sides
Like a candle that’s burning
On the light end
And the dark end
I mean it’s not much of a deal
If there’s a sacrifice
You’re not even making
When you walk up the mountain
And stand in front of the table
At the end of the field with corners
Curved like the top of a radiator
Lifting up the child
Like a candle you hold on to
When it’s too dark to see anything else
*****
Peter Leight has previously published poems in Paris Review, AGNI, Beloit Poetry Review, Raritan, Matter, and other magazines.