the edge

my first memory of
him isn't a memory
of a person so
much as a memory of
a photograph

standing on a beach
                
a bench in the
edge of the
background behind him

it was a windy autumn day and
his hair was swept to the
edge of his head from
the breeze

a small trickle of vapor
slipped from the edge of his mouth
and flowed away from him
like he was an old locomotive

his jacket was buttoned all
the way to his neck
and his hands were
buried deep into the edges
of his pockets to keep
out the weather

the world
was on the edge of
disorder
                
and man
stood
on the edges of the
earth looking
skyward

-published in Poesy #16