Matthew Bruce Harrison / Poetry 6.1 / Spring, 2018

MATTHEW BRUCE HARRISON

 

 

 

 

 

Photography © by Tammy Ruggles from RSR Featured Art

 

We Find Ourselves Where

The trees between us
and the shifting planks
of shadow between

the trees, the blank scape
of the farthest trees
we wonder if shadow

too. Our walk is long
inside outdoors, roof
implied by branching

sounds, deep boat sounds
and around us a moving
picture—like a fading

negative—pursues
a rumored light between
the planks we walk, straight

or in tracery—route
leaf shaped, it can seem,
but which leaf there

is no telling. There are
so many. There is much
weary applause. Rasping

breath or breeze. You cough
or claws autograph close
bark. Sap or sweat. Wisps

of hair fall in our eyes
or most everywhere
webs. I smell crushed

fruit, you decomposing
shadows. Do we seek
an out door or the room

to wait—the possible
clearing? Our walking
imitates our questions—

together—you direct
circular me, then vice
versa. Why is the way

so long? Because it goes
a long way. This is sense
among the redundant

trees. How long before
our hands are hatchets
and open these trunks

to find cradles, homes?
Our mark is dot dot dot—
three knobs carved some-

where. The difference
between making a home
and being at home

disappears in trees. Lost,
we learn to belong, and I
am glad you are with me.

 

Matthew Bruce Harrison’s writing can be found in West Branch, Carolina Quarterly, Superstition Review, Bayou, Cincinnati Review, Adroit Journal, Texas Review, Crab Creek Review, Sixth Finch, and Doctor T.J. Eckleburg Review, among others. He lives and teaches in Minnesota.

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