by Jay Heins
little victory
I used to think that days are divided
into good days and bad days, but
now there are only days.
Days are indifferent.
Days are agnostic—
your nostalgia
and your agony.
One bright day: a family visit, our niece, five,
wakes us singing “Good Morning Song.”
The way we love small things.
span
highway
graceful curve camber
back to front
the empty unsprung
arc of a flatbed trailer
ready for load
ahead and behind
bright gleaming
an elegant bridge
from me to you
Jay Heins is an accidental poet. A visual artist by training, art director by profession, words came late to his creative practice. Language becomes the means to make sense of the difficult stuff. Work includes photography and poetry, each infusing and supporting the other—to re-create moments of presence. book of hours is Jay’s first collection poetry and photography, explores love of place, family, the body, aging, and loss (www.jayheins.com).