Friday, April 15, 2016

No other way

My giant has faded from my senses,
the sound of his music dims onshore
as my ship slips from its harbor.
The months have made quick work 
of all six feet four of him.
There is less and less.
I see right through him, 
an X-ray, curved ribs and behind them 
the hillside. 
I must not lose him like this. 
I must stay awake and think of him, 
his grin, the way he booms around the room.
I must say his name each day, 
his picture must hang in every room.
I must pull the hairs from his brush.
I must write about him every day. 
There is no other way.

Nothing like that

He doesn't take deep breaths,
does not shout,
nothing like that,
when angry, 

he walks away,
into a tower, 
bolts the door

for hours, days,
sometimes centuries.

I can hear Art Farmer, 
then Paul Desmond
and when I hear Jobim  

I know the door will open.
He will not look at me. 
He will only say, 
 I'm going to the store,

Do you need anything?
And I will answer,

Yes, I do need, 
I need some things.

Of course

Of course, of course 
our story can be told in words.
Of course some facts 
like where and when we tied the knot --
there's always words for that. 

But days of quiet knowing
on a drive to town when 
his finger taps the dash and 
Baker sings ”She’s Too Good For Me”
as the trees fly by (we know those words 
by heart), 
how to talk of that? 

And of the spell of here and now
and when it breaks?
I have no words for that. 
Of course, of course.