Thursday, January 19, 2017


I barely move now. Nearly still.
Crawling beneath a shell, 
the past stacked high, scales 
for every memory. 
Inside each, a photo or two. 
Some letters. A wool cap.
With my load, I amble 
along, here and there. 
No sense of where
The question every day, 
where now? 
What is life without a hill to climb? 
There must be a hill to climb.
A widow must step outside 
and look around,
pick up a tool and get to work. 
She must choose a path and clear it, 
then fill it with flagstone. 
No good to stroll about  
like some old tourist 

in Chinatown. 

Gutttural sounds

Oh honey, look at me.
Sitting here and must endure
your failure to be present,
to suffer the deficiency 
of you all by myself,
endure the lack of you 
without you.
Here and now this paucity 
of you must be gone
through so alone.

I can’t remember all we did,
only how you nursed me in the dark.
I have memorized your eyes on me.
I could not love you more 
than I loved myself 
but I loved you enough, 
or so you wrote in every card 
piled here on my lap. 

But just when I need you most, 
you are so absent,

so enormous this gap.

Tuesday, January 10, 2017


His grooming strikes you 
the way a green golf course in winter 
calls out 
for a long long 

His love of it speaks
no words, 
there’s a shyness in him 
toward the art 
though he entered the world 
its schemes.

Even when the nurse wheels 
him to dinner, 
you must look at the man 
with waves of white hair 
in the knobby whelk sweater, 
those dark eyes open and blank 
as a mounted stag, 
but my oh my, 
what class, what rank.