The past has us passed out in attic rooms six to a futon bed,
eyes heavy after sucking smoke from lawn ornaments—
or younger sun kissed in a coastal cottage waiting for the clang
of brass handles your uncle’s ghost was said to pluck like harp strings.
Later in the log cabin we discovered a minister’s robe
& danced until blasphemy became buoyant like belly laughs—
or later still in a moment yet to come in which we float
to a riverbed loft lined with moon jellies & glassworks
from our hometown.
What is it called this thing between living & luster
standing present inside moments passed & others
yet to come—
Adam Gianforcaro (he/him) is a writer living in Wilmington, Delaware. His poems, stories, and essays can be found or are forthcoming in Hobart, Poet Lore, Third Coast, RHINO Poetry, Maudlin House, and elsewhere. He tweets intermittently under the handle @xadamg.