The sun is white in a sky
without cloud. The waves of the lake
tug like a blanket.

I stand on the mountain. So close
to the eagle and heron
I can pull heaven down

with a hook. It is a day
when the world is small and bends
but does not trap.

When memories remain, like fossils
in the belly of a rock,
waiting to be split.

Time asks nothing:
only that you move in its quiet
and forget.

William G. Gillespie lives and writes in Brooklyn, NY. His poems have appeared in Rust + Moth, Eunoia Review, boats against the current, and other journals. He holds a BA from Amherst College.

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