by Jason Labbe
Let the transit of light right my wrongs:
Let the rock I threw at the other boy
Let the canopy of continuous lies burn in brushfire,
Let the shoplifted hammer be returned to its hook.
Let the sliver of pheasant-bone stuck in my throat
Dissolve into water. Let the trickle
Slither over black rock into the Pacific:
Slide, crescendo, wave
Before generations of reeds.
Let the end begin in a distant city.
Let me be the last to know, so
I can see these tomatoes ripen, like a sentence
Completed, before I pick them.
Let them taste sweet as
Jason Labbe’s poems appear or are forthcoming in AGNI, American Letters & Commentary, Beloit Poetry Journal, CROWD, Hayden's Ferry Review, Quarterly West, and other journals. He is currently a Henry Hoyns Fellow and lives in Charlottesville, Virginia. (11/2005)