To land in a story whose end I do not know
as if we ever saw to any end:
I try to keep my balance, high and low. The sliver of this moon, discreet and new
Waxing? Waning? I forget. They blend
in a sky whose limits we don’t know. Continue Reading »
After two clashing daysultramarine
overlaid with vermilion
it came to me late the third afternoon
that as between
anger and grief there’s no comparison.
The choice is easy. Does one have a choice?
Continue Reading »
The elements were stark: a winter wall,
snow, ice, snapped wrist. Through the break
I could just glimpse the color of the bone.
But cold and white, the January crust,
weren’t the whole story. Seasons turn,
bones knit, a secret stirs beneath the snow.
Continue Reading »
Early light slants low across the lawn.
Cuplike, this little valley brims with sun.
Pages fill and empty. In the mist
of a still morning, nothing’s out of reach. Continue Reading »
I would have liked to linger in this room, But a rough wind was blowing. To wake up and go back to sleep beside you, But dawn was showing. Down on the river, a boat with a black sail. I must be going. . . . . Continue Reading »
Her hair still hardly touched with grey, and wound in gleaming braids around her head, my mother, who in life was not so given to smiling, grinned in last nights dream from ear to ear the double meaning of archaic smiles: I am alive and also I am dead. A snapshot from . . . . Continue Reading »
Word trickled down the aisle that he had died. My first response: how did they even know? Grief was an afterthought. He’d long been gone; had only just sufficiently revived to totter to his feet and say hello (or else goodbye)”impossibly removed, frail, struggling to sit or stand or . . . . Continue Reading »
Lyric maneuvers through a narrow space, a blade of light squeezed under a dark door, hence more condensed (less being more): a distillation of the days events, white underbelly weirdly gemmed with dream. But must it not also be thinner and thus slip the more adroitly through the haze of . . . . Continue Reading »
Deep in myth, these galleries keep their counsel but re-distribute all the elements. Nymph rides goat, at-tended by a satyr who pats her rump to help her keep her seat; putto rides goat, attended by a nymph. Two other satyrs from behind a bush leer at a nymph reclining in a grot. By a Maenadic, . . . . Continue Reading »
Living with dementia is like riding on a carousel. I said dementia is like a big old carousel. And you cant get off, though it turns into a hotel. Year after year they reserve you the same place. Year after year they save you the same old place. They forget your name, but they never forget a . . . . Continue Reading »