Winter comes to the garden, then fall, then summer. Hours construct themselves exactly as fast as they disintegrate. I came here to read and speculate but forgot how I got in. Ants imply distance to cover; death implies time has gone on without you; I should start over. Maybe I’ll go into real estate. You place your finger lightly on a string, and the garden oscillates at several modes. I put on a face like a window and walk around the plat. I’m waiting for the northern cardinal to catch his reflection in my face, to wear himself out fighting it.
Lindsey Webb is the author of a chapbook, House (Ghost Proposal, 2020). Her poetry and other writings have appeared in Denver Quarterly, Chicago Review, jubilat, Vestiges, and Lana Turner, among others. She was named a 2021 National Poetry Series finalist. She lives in Salt Lake City, where she is a PhD student in Literature and Creative Writing at the University of Utah.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan