Unearth 13 Poem by William Pryor

on hill field's grass our feet
small fields, little house, dusk
pinks wisp of cloud in back-lit sky
we talk of time, look up
find we're after the event
they are pink no more



from occasion there is failure
ink is poem is nothing
to do but fail its origin
be its own separation:



deed from wish, actuality
from what I would own
could it be owned


with night we came home
to hear each other's music
on the cassette recorder