By Fred Chappell
It lingers beyond the threshold
an incident that was no incident,
a moment something like a knothole
in a wall
of pine, within the striate grain an
rupture of the swift flow of days
unhalted, that gave a placket glimpse
complete, of one bright image that
stamps, even now
vivid, with its moment of amaze.
at once, its joy upon the brain a glow
expired, and the ever-yearning soul
upon what was only a presentiment
of something that was that never
was at all.