Listen to “Widower at Perril Falls”
read by Jonathan H. Scott
He shimmies the elm over Perril Falls, To tempt the gorge, investigate the yearn Of gravity. The river-bed is dry— Licked only by a trickle from the spring. At thoughts of years in millions, he dizzies, Holds tighter to his limb. The forest soughs In waves, draws his eyes to the distance. Above a scribbled line of evergreens, A water-tower bulges. He wonders who, Right this second, stands beneath a faucet. Perhaps that Emily is showering . . . His waitress from the other day Who recommended clams, who topped his tea— A breast against his neck. Was it perfume Or soap that made her smell of hyacinth? Is the water getting cold and soon She’ll step out shivering? A shadow longs Into the east across a swatch of moss. The laces of his canvas shoes Are breezy—welter-weighted pendulums Not harassed by the tock of time, not tied In bows to tongues. Easing his grip, he hums. Beneath the gauze of a settling fog, The gash of the red-clay gorge is fading.