Peter Leight lives in Amherst, Massachusetts. He has previously published poems in the Paris Review, AGNI, Antioch Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, FIELD, and other magazines.
The Struggle
Falling back when the others advance,
advancing when they fall back,
we live in reverse.
throwing away our calendars—
in a hurry but not rushing, this is the distinction
we need to make.
In case they tune in
every hour we play the accompaniment that becomes the melody later on,
exposing the evidence
of crimes in the haunted province,
pulling out the names and dates like an aching tooth.
Balancing the need to recover the truth
and to find something to replace it. When
the rains come, expeditions
creep up the slopes, imitating the absence
of desperation, and slip
back into the landscape
of lakes and rivers.
Death is the driver
who doesn’t go too fast
and doesn’t want to be passed.
ANYWHERE
I’m not going anywhere.
I don’t mind walking,
I actually like to walk
when I’m not going anywhere.
There are lots of places I’m not going,
it’s not always the same place,
there’s plenty of leeway
when you’re not going anywhere—
it’s a kind of openness or impartiality
you don’t feel anywhere else.
I’m not even thinking about where I’m not going to be.
Sometimes I turn one way then the other,
as if there’s somewhere else I’m not going,
the details of which escape me.
When I’m walking I wear the kind of quiet shoes you can wear anywhere.
I often look around when I’m not going anywhere,
although with Ramakrishna I know I’m not going to find anything anywhere.
Nobody’s coming with me,
I don’t think anybody knows where I’m not going.
It could be anywhere.
