by Mark Dunbar

I put my foot down
a little too hard—crows
fly up in my face,
leaves shake, branches.

I hang my picture from a tree
and watch water fill
my footsteps.

How did they get so deep?
I don’t remember climbing out.
The ants have run away.
The geese have flown.

It’s time to start the bucketing.
The light says so.
Something’s there—I can tell
by the ripples,
the small, almost imperceptible
waves over a shoal.

I search all night
for the right bucket,
meaning years,
and you can believe me,
or not—
none of them were right.

So now I use my hands
to rescue what may be
a mess of honey,
a bed of nettles,
or perhaps
the frightful face
of some old god

its bone-lit inner fire
still glowing,
who says,
you may pass.

Mark Dunbar lives outside Chicago. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rogue Agent, Corvus Review, Bicoastal Review and the Ekphrastic Review, among others. He attended Kenyon College where he was the recipient of the American Academy of Poets Award. You can fins him on Facebook (@mdunbar007) and Instagram (@mdunbar001)