That we can breathe and not forget
our dreams entirely. In the cold sun
the warmth of timelessness. There is
panic, rest assured, so much beauty

stirring, I want to touch all that
contains me. We know the questions

and the light shifts without a word.
In the clouds, a philosopher's chair

rocks. In the riverbed, the buff
and lathe of stones, change glistening

past. And from the afternoon, drops
of her monthly blood drip down

the stairs, the kitchen table, all of her
unopened bills, a cold floor that timed

us. O, the ins and outs of memory
breathe, too, images at rest in the dark

chambers, the gilded daylight whir
a heart's dusting--one walkup,

one post storm quiet blinking at
infinity. Who shot the moon

and claimed victory in the morning?
The constellations touch down;

the years collapse; the boom
and bust of love lowers the crane

at dawn: in what earth, in what sky
will the soul find its keeper?



About this poem
"The sun was so low in the sky on a cold January afternoon in New York City, I was blinded to the point where I had to stop walking. And it was a kind of high as my vision expanded; and the days collapsed."
-Howard Altmann

About Howard Altmann
Howard Altmann is the author of "In This House" (Turtle Point Press, 2010). He lives in New York City.


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The Academy of American Poets is a nonprofit, mission-driven organization, whose aim is to make poetry available to a wider audience. Email The Academy at poem-a-day[at]poets.org.


(c) 2015 Howard Altmann. Originally published by the Academy of American Poets, www.poets.org. Distributed by King Features Syndicate