Pleasure and its wispy finger
curling over decades
like the shared shade of pale objects:
lantern, fan, and wall. Sometimes
I see my young friends elderly,
smaller in their skin
for harbor minutes
when to remember
to fill the boat with kindness
papers the throat like a thick stripe
of fire to my breast. Blush wind.
I cut them loose, in a saying
kept unsaid. Again, again
this rock like the head of a siren
broken over by waves.
The approximate chapter of the water
is somewhere in the middle so we may stay
a little longer, a little longer.
Alec Hershman lives in St. Louis. He has received awards from The Kimmel-Harding-Nelson Center for the Arts, The Jentel Foundation, and The Institute for Sustainable Living, Art, and Natural Design. More of his poems will soon be available in Parcel, Permafrost, The Cortland Review, The Tule Review, and Puerto del Sol. You can also find him online at alechershmanpoetry.com.