Poem of the Week | April 25, 2016

This week we feature a new poem by Jason Labbe. Labbe’s work appears in Poetry, A Public Space, Conjunctions, Boston Review, Colorado Review, and in a handful of chapbooks. He teaches at Southern Connecticut State University, operates a small business specializing in vintage Triumph motorcycles, and plays drums and percussion with various recording and performing projects in the Northeast. He lives in Bethany, Connecticut.
 
Author’s note:

I wrote this poem in my back yard, surrounded by woods, at dusk. While the poem in one respect simply records my surroundings, it also reflects in its aesthetics and subject matter a number of things I’d been obsessing over, including Robert Smithson’s art and essays, the films of Stan Brakhage (especially Mothlight), and a strained friendship that seemed to be finding its end. I was recognizing that I’d handled the relationship carelessly and that it was beyond the point where an apology would mean very much.
 
Dusk is my favorite part of the day, and I find it most intense in autumn. This poem dwells in the threshold between sunlight and dark, the warm day and chilly night, leaves and no leaves.