From the November Issue
The way from When to Now is never straight
but crooked, narrow, dangerous, immense,
its perils not apparent to the sense,
with fearful consequence for coming late,
with no important treasure to defend,
and only stale provision at the end.
Faint lines connect the space from What to This,
from Why to But to Yes, from Where to Near.
Lines barely designate Away from Here,
or tell me how to find a turn I miss.
The schedule shows a prospect, How to Deed.
The path is marked, but not so I can read.
A boy stands on a spit above the sea
that stops his passage to another side
where, he is certain, lovely girls abide
and lemonade and licorice are free.
He lingers while the minutes fade away,
and slowly, surely, comfortable decay.
Conrad Geller has published more than a hundred poems, electronically and in print. His awards include the Charles E. Tuttle Prize, Bibliophilos Prize, and several awards from the Poetry Society of Virginia. A Bostonian, he now lives and writes in Northern Virginia.