In Sunlight’s White

Gail Goepfert

The Chicago morning, humdrum like most other
the air beginning to thicken
this humid afternoon.
White sunlight—

summer            sunset            someone is playing.

We live in a box.
Years happen                       elsewhere.

Some spread out wide near the surface some sink.

I have to learn the simplest things last.

Poor passion, you bear the blame

the lust for explanation

I want
I want
white sunlight
another kind of love.
A kingfisher flares up from the trees.

Hamilton, Ralph. Teaching a Man to Unstick His Tail.

Gail Goepfert is an ardent poet, photographer, and teacher. She reads lots of poems as an associate editor of RHINO Poetry. She authored a chapbook, A Mind on Pain, released by Finishing Line Press early in 2015. She’s been nominated for three Pushcart Prizes. Publications past and forthcoming include Blue Lyra, Crab Orchard and Jet Fuel Reviews, Minerva Rising, Found Poetry Review, Room Magazine and Rattle. Her photographs appear online at the Chicago Botanic Garden, Olentangy Review, 3Elements Review and on the cover of February 2015 Rattle. She lives, writes, and snaps photos in the Chicagoland area. More at

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