HUNDRED LAPS<\/p>\n
The moon was closest as reflected
\nin the kitchen window where the August
\nsunset peeled itself from blue to a gray
\nflashed with embarrassments of pink<\/p>\n
that begged the betterment of my mood.
\nAfter jotting letters sent next-day air
\nto Massachusetts, I back-stroked another
\nhundred laps in the apartment’s small pool.<\/p>\n
Summer, that falling glass, that drunk-
\nand-driving-too-fast friend, was mostly
\na suspicion of summer slipping away.
\nThe picnic table held complicated plans in place<\/p>\n
while I swam. Missing you\u2014 that punked-out
\nmiscreant. That fear of water.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
John Whalen\u2019s<\/a> books include Caliban<\/em> <\/a>(Lost Horse Press)\u00a0and In Honor of the Spigot<\/em> <\/a>(Gribble Press<\/a>), <\/em>a chapbook. His poems have appeared most recently in Epoch, Ascent,<\/a><\/em> and CutBank.<\/em><\/a>\u00a0He lives in Spokane.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" HUNDRED LAPS The moon was closest as reflected in the kitchen window where the August sunset peeled itself from blue to a gray flashed with embarrassments of pink that begged the betterment of my mood. After jotting letters sent next-day … Continue reading