Home-coming. Leave taking. That place, again to and from, where lights scintillate,
et cetera, with no
where like the smell of baked bread. How predictable traffic is, obeying false stars.
Money, brightly colored;
stain left by lawns too much watered. Time resists its table, whereas wind knows
what to do with matches.
Scribe. With a name known only to himself. Waits to pen letters to friends in Tunisia
Algiers, Morocco, or
Amsterdam. Writing to family, we scribble thumbnail sketches of ourselves, or who
we remember startled us
this morning in the mirror. Hindsight is 20/20, and rearviews are reserved for blurs.
Forever and the time it took to return. Walking a plank, weather underneath is the same. Smells of salt,
mermaid foam. Call it
a day with teaspoons of regret and honey. As detritus is detrimental to one's health, hillocks
fade into sea. Placidity
twirls its thumbs. Flowers begin to flower, not knowing the month. Sundays, all in a row. To
speak is to beach comb
Philip Kobylarz is a teacher and writer of fiction, poetry, book reviews, and essays. He has worked as a
journalist and film critic for newspapers in Memphis, TN. His work appears in such publications as
Paris Review, Poetry, and The Best American Poetry series. He is the author of a book of poems
concerning life in the south of France and a short story collection titled Now Leaving Nowheresville.
His creative non-fiction collection All Roads Lead from Massilia is forthcoming from Everytime Press
of Adelaide, Australia and he has a collection forthcoming from Brooklyn’s Lit Riot Press titled
A Miscellany of Diverse Things. More at: kobylarzauthor.wix.com/pkoby.