Working Title by Jay Ritchie

The impermanence of enough and things

as you find them. Piece some knowing together

like a working title. Of the sun’s “radiant

presence,” of the shade’s “cool line,” about what

are you worried. There, there. Judgement is bereft

of acceptance and right now you’re here, no,

there. Remain with time as a calendar does not,

the page you turn is turning you. Today’s tree,

today’s wind. Today and every sunstruck part

that has nothing to do with you. The population

greets what you forgot: all the lights at night,

that happy stumbling feeling, the passing cloud,

the map of the town’s faded pressure lines,

teary-eyed in what you thought was a clearing.