From the Greek word meaning one who knows,
it’s what we call the center of the sundial
whose understanding comes to us in shadows
that are its voice, and ours, the saint of all
who speak and can’t quite say what they are meaning.
How do they know, you ask, they who stand
inside their bodies, by their words, by things
that must be larger than the shape they’re in.
If you go still a moment, the moment falls
as always, but you feel it, the silhouette
of someone you lost once or meant to call,
the small addresses of your daily orbit
cast out in time, until, that is, sundown,
and knowers turn to shadows of the known.

Bruce Bond, from West Branch (no. 76, Fall 2014)