I go out on the porch to smoke.
I’ve started again.
The night is wild and starlit
with living trees and creaking.
A single frog is somewhere near and no moon.
I can still feel you. The ancient
pine with the fencepost nailed to it
makes a letter in an alphabet of trees, backwards,
something like an F with many branches.
One car drives down Territory Road,
then another after. The red taillights
make fingertips. Blinking,
they both turn left, then dark.
Back when it was only hours
since we last spoke, I sat here in the same way
alone in the dark. I’m sitting alone
in the dark, I said. Outer space
came very close, then I stepped down
on the surface of a planet.
KARY WAYSON is the author of two books of poetry, The Slip (Burnside Review, 2020) and American Husband (The Ohio State University Press, 2009), as well as a chapbook, Dog & Me (LitRag Press, 2004). Kary lives in Port Orchard, WA and works as a freelance editor.