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.