The Conjunction Holds
(with a verb in the wings)
Not the leap,
but the plank between banks—
its grain remembering
both shores.
Not the shout,
but the breath that lets
two voices
share one lung.
I am and,
I am but,
I am although—
the quiet ligature
that keeps the torn cloth
from drifting apart.
The verb would run,
would strike,
would bloom—
but I stay,
a hinge in the weather,
turning both ways at once.
Here,
in the seam’s small country,
I keep the quarrel and the kiss
in the same sentence,
and call it
poem.
.
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 7:37 PM UTC
The Conjunction Holds
(with a verb in the wings)
Not the leap,
but the plank between banks—
its grain remembering
both shores.
Not the shout,
but the breath that lets
two voices
share one lung.
I am and,
I am but,
I am although—
the quiet ligature
that keeps the torn cloth
from drifting apart.
The verb would run,
would strike,
would bloom—
but I stay,
a hinge in the weather,
turning both ways at once.
Here,
in the seam’s small country,
I keep the quarrel and the kiss
in the same sentence,
and call it
poem.
.
...this on comes from a friendly conversation with Lawrence Hall about poems being verbs.
