Evening pond

One Poem by Ryan Kingsley

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Between the Heron and the Wren

Across the pond
a shipwreck of blown-down trees and bracken,
                                   wreckage shadow-ruched.

Slight wind. That’s everafter 
all at once—an inkling at the nape turning
leaves changing places. 

Nothing canters away 
breathing hard, none lowers its head to drink,
now afternoon is gone and evening is already
a garden party elsewhere on the night’s invitation.
                                                     The mind declines.

The shrubs are at each other. In delicate scales
the water unmottles, where, each day glancing 
from a final pivot, at each night landing a first 
released opposite—shore handing off to shore 

                                  so many ideas of distance:
                   winter, ocean, wild horses, birdsong, inchworm.

But this pond is a pond. 
This wind only wind I could reach into
to find—pull a memory by its scruff—
reeds wicking moonlight

the flashlight trains
drawn down in and out of the water,
how the aluminum fish stringer 
candles the water behind my boat, boat and fish
a flicker inside a bigger flicker.

Just past my fingertips 
night stretches slowly, nowhere nearer 
now it’s looked after. Taste of blood, back of the throat. 
Ever’s rough rub slipped through the gills. Oh moon—

                                     drag me, like madness
                  across a star, then more, inches above the water.




Ryan KingsleyRyan Kingsley is a poet from Massachusetts who currently studies in the University of Washington’s MFA program (Seattle). He received his undergraduate degree in English and political science from the College of the Holy Cross.

Header photo by Sesana, courtesy Pixabay.

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