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Nicole Callihan
Being that it is late

that it is already too late,
that it was always too late,
that the day had become late,
and then the night, too, was late,
and now morning, but late
morning, but morning late
enough to be nearly noon, late
in the curve of sky, late
in my lazy walk to the train, late
with its slate roof, its roses so late
as to be dead on the vine, late
in my hunger, my hunger so late
as to have passed, my thirst late
in and of itself, water running late
down my chin, running late
into the rising river, running late
in its reflection of the stars, late
in its dipper’s ladle, and I am late,
and the dream late, even the lake late,
late and frozen, but not so late
as to be frozen solid, not ice late,
but dangerous late, waterbody late,
of what the mystics call too late
for disaster, and too late, too,
for any certain heaven, snake late,
or I have again eaten my tail late,
licked clean the blue plate late,
yes, I’ve swallowed my fate;
stomached it. My god, it’s late.
 

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