What is certain are possibilities. The potted weed might bloom. Cloud play might develop a sunset erratic, colored with the dust of the living. Days are to be clung to, lined up, planned as boxes in which they are encased. Calendar squares to be x-ed out because the nights are many and certain. Heart concealed in a hope chest. Doilies remain as fallen cobwebs on a bureau full of old, fading, photographs, narrations for the future.
Philip Kobylarz is a teacher and writer of fiction, poetry, book reviews, and essays. He has worked as a journalist and film critic for newspapers in Memphis, TN. His work appears in such publications as Paris Review, Poetry, and The Best American Poetry series. The author of a book of poems concerning life in the south of France, he has a collection of short fiction and a book-length essay forthcoming.