by Genevieve Leone
We live many lifetimes in one. The red-hot iron of noon and the face of the old man, flat against it. We feel him with heavy brushstroke, hammering light. Shadows of old gold. We can’t become him and away. Color stops us, the thickness of it, the heat, everything that must be carried. One brown hand folded over another, elbows bent. We are born and progress toward stone. His lips are closed. To say is too large or small.