For Want of a Better Description
She and I made a fire beneath a lantern
hung from a tree. Chained to the tree,
a bicycle with one wheel. Tennis balls
torn from a jack-knifed semi
tumbled past us down the hillside.
I would describe a tree if I could.
The way leaves sound the same
in every human language. The way
its towering indifference
is the most reassuring thing you’ll ever know.
I tried to buy a drink for her in a bar
and instead heard myself say, If we could learn
the patience of trees, everything else would follow —
I would describe her if I could.
How she’d flicker and give off sparks when
I blinked my eyes
infinitesimal fragments
of movement, dislocation
on a static canvas. How I gave up trying
to follow and vowed to find her
in stillness. The tennis balls stopped falling.
Dan Wiencek is a poet, critic and humorist who lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and whose work has appeared in Sou’wester, New Ohio Review, Timberline Review, Carve and other publications. His first collection of poems, Routes Between Raindrops, was published by First Matter Press in 2021.