Cloying
Sitting on the chrome bench in their room painted taupe green and the doctor saying the word cancer the black orange sun fighting the old flicker fluorescents, I’m this pile of silt now magazines into the ill past vast numbers of magazines into the far everything you remember the little house all the people now dead someone’s in the leaves the doctor with his eyes like pennies still looking at you speaking in his clipped...
Read MoreOn a Watch
The stream swells snowmelt over blankets of pine needles the remembered smells are here embedded in the rough hewn boards’ cabins the upswept mountain flowers strewn. A doe and its fawn may pass looking cautiously between fallen branches and the new growth you and I would walk these trails summer becoming fall then winter. Ice winds and the now scattered sun you’d ask me your thought about questions us in our heavy coats I miss your gray one and...
Read MoreElse
We are, all of us written in disappearing ink, blood. My bones which hold me up have been pulverized to dust in you. The auricle in my ear strains to hear the slightest canticle in air of all of your days. We are falsified by time, allowed to muse that we’re in any vain manner a piece of the thread. However all we truly know or have is the ever growing weaker and paler remembrance of that which we were. As the drops of blood which we’d lately been thin, become this silver last strand dispersed ultimately into all of the universe’s rivers, wide...
Read MoreAn Amount
I think about all of those in New York City all housed in their individual cubes and I wonder do they think about me on the opposite coast smaller cubes flatter do they imagine me with my white walls and white small piece of paper trying to re-compose you there from nothing less than thin air I have been given what used to be you in a small box your name misspelled on a stick-on label I do not know what to make of that that you the most wondrous configuration of cells and thoughts a jubilee of them and now this ugly obscene box and this empty slip of...
Read MoreStoppage
The trees rustle and shake just the same as you did with your disease I stay outside quiet and waiting watch the unkempt days wind and unwind the dull of metals set aside called inside themselves. Are you currently in a place watching the sings of the gale force wind the slapping over its banks, water I keep a vestige of you at last finally, in me, in loose leaf journals. I can feel you the sun sometimes warms the flowers, the leaves, though still.
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