DEAR MISS GONE by Ben Purkert

/ / Issue 10, Poetry

I’m hardly alone—
like most men, I’ll gaze

at anything to avoid looking
inward. Like a stream
reflects what surrounds
but never the face of

itself. I mean force, I mean—
forget it. Let’s cast ourselves
into a pond: a still surface
standing forever without

a break. Let’s freeze at
the tipping point when you
leave me, here in the heart
of this song. At least

metaphors have my back;
at least the swallows outside
my window sound really into
each other. I hope they fly

so far south, they don’t
remember a thing.