George David Clark
Still Life
Peculiar how the olio
of days and rain and sun
inside a grape can taste
so much like time itself,
a liberal age distilled
to what one swallow
will erase; strange
in apples that same mix
seems mostly crisp,
clear water in its wildest
form, while peaches
clench their sugar
in a ghostly wattage,
fossil brightness,
slightly warm.
Summer’s ending
and again I’m older.
For several minutes
it’s been faintly raining,
though the blunt,
blithe sunlight’s
undiminished.
Something weather-baked
inside me smolders
toward forever:
one wet grape remaining
in the bowl
when this quick
picnic’s finished.
George David Clark is an assistant professor of English and creative writing at Washington & Jefferson College. His first book, Reveille (Arkansas, 2015), won the Miller Williams Prize and his recent poems can be found in AGNI, The Georgia Review, The Gettysburg Review, Image, The Southern Review, and elsewhere. The editor of 32 Poems, he lives in Washington, Pennsylvania.
Return to November 2018 Edition
Peculiar how the olio
of days and rain and sun
inside a grape can taste
so much like time itself,
a liberal age distilled
to what one swallow
will erase; strange
in apples that same mix
seems mostly crisp,
clear water in its wildest
form, while peaches
clench their sugar
in a ghostly wattage,
fossil brightness,
slightly warm.
Summer’s ending
and again I’m older.
For several minutes
it’s been faintly raining,
though the blunt,
blithe sunlight’s
undiminished.
Something weather-baked
inside me smolders
toward forever:
one wet grape remaining
in the bowl
when this quick
picnic’s finished.
George David Clark is an assistant professor of English and creative writing at Washington & Jefferson College. His first book, Reveille (Arkansas, 2015), won the Miller Williams Prize and his recent poems can be found in AGNI, The Georgia Review, The Gettysburg Review, Image, The Southern Review, and elsewhere. The editor of 32 Poems, he lives in Washington, Pennsylvania.
Return to November 2018 Edition