She is gone, where did she go?
He can’t imagine how the house will feel
when he enters it, moving room to room.
Now that the wait is over, a larger pause
will blanket the roof, softness settling
slowly down. By which window or door
may future days enter? And what about minor
questions called out, to which there was always
that lilting reply?
Similar Posts
‘It is believed that the onion originally came from India. In Egypt it was an
entered Greece and on to Italy, thence into all of Europe.’ — Better Living CookbookWhen I think how far the onion has traveledjust to enter my stew today, I could kneel and praiseall small forgotten miracles,crackly paper peeling on the drainboard,pearly layers in smooth agreement,the way the knife enters onionand onion falls apart on the…
It is difficult to know what to do with so much happiness.
a wound to tend with lotion and cloth.When the world falls in around you, you have pieces to pick up,something to hold in your hands, like ticket stubs or change.But happiness floats.It doesn’t need you to hold it down.It doesn’t need anything.Happiness lands on the roof of the next house, singing,and disappears when it wants…
“Let’s be the same wound if we must bleed.
is ourselves: I am yours, you are mine.”—Tommy Olofsson, SwedenI’m not interested inwho suffered the most.I’m interested inpeople getting over it.Once when my father was a boya stone hit him on the head.Hair would never grow there.Our fingers found the tender spotand its riddle: the boy who has fallenstands up. A bucket of pearsin his…
If a street is named for a tree,
bloom purple and feel like cats,that people are leaves driftingdownhill in morning fog.Everyone came outside to seethe moon setting like a perfectorange mouth tipped up to heaven.Now the cars sleep against curbs.If I write a letter,how will I make it long enough?There is a place to standwhere you can see so many lightsyou forget you…
A small striped sleeve in her lap,
needles carefully whipping in yarnfrom two sides.She reminds me of the wide-angled womenfilled with calmI pretended I was related toin crowds.In the next seata yellow burst of woolgrows into a hat with a tassel.She looks young to crochet.I’m glad history isn’t totally lost.Her silver hook dips gracefuly.And when’s the last time you sawanyone sew a…
We forget that we are all dead men conversing wtih dead men.
For the first time, on the road north of Tampico,I felt the life sliding out of me,a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear.I was seven, I lay in the carwatching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass.My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin.‘How do you know if…