by Carolyn Guinzio

If you put in to the river near where you live,
how close will it bring you to home? Nothing is familiar

from here. There is always an emptiness coming
towards us to take something back or away. Blue heron

on bank, green heron in branch, bittern
on bar, mussel husk. THANKS FOR A GREAT

FORTY FIVE YEARS was written in the gritty
window of the shop. Even the nests in the eaves

are empty. TO EACH THEIR OWN ETERNITY
is written on the stone city gate. It's safe

to say now, from this distance, wobbling in the blue
basket of a yellow balloon, that everything ends,

and everything ends in water, or, what doesn't end
in water ends in light, or what doesn't end in light doesn't

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Carolyn Guinzio's most recent collection is A Vertigo Book, winner of The Tenth Gate Prize and winner of the Foreword Indies Award for Poetry Book of the Year. Her work has appeared in The New Yorker, The Nation, Poetry, and many other journals. Her poetry films have been screened at numerous festivals throughout the world, including the Cadence Festival, where she was a jury award winner. Her website is carolynguinzio.tumblr.com.