Poetry by Brian McCabe
Part of each thing moves toward away
what remains is the outline of its movement
You sit by the window, name it arrangement
Then you walk out into coppering light
into the neighborhood whose houses
look out at other houses, making them
them and you you so clearly they
seem not to. Even now that you have
nothing to do but brim with memory
blue hems into mauve and rust
shadows untuck from trees
in asphaltic arrangements of grey and green
Mom texted there’s an offer on the house
I stood near the canary grass when dad said
they found a mass-like shadow
Stirring in a shore breeze, its clarities cross
one over the other like strands of dust
gradually weakening through pain’s mesh
These gardens, traceable to sways of blooms,
now grow thin— name them arrangement.
These days fit inside loss like a body in its shadow.
Brian McCabe lives in New York City, where he teaches English. He received a BA from The New School and an MA from Hunter College. His poems can be found in Counterclock, Broadkill Review, The Sunlight Press, among others.