We stay put, apart,
constant in longing. And that is all
fine, my friends, except the dying
part. Death all around love’s
little sprouting head.
I did the only humane thing left
At seventy-five I find myself in love.
Not the serene love of an old man
steeped in the wine and wisdom of years,
but one who would kill a dragon for her.
“What queer books she must have read!”
My mind yearns for sleep so innocently it refuses
the perverse truth…
I’ve been meaning to write about a patch of mossy
frogs’ eggs in a vernal pool, about a single contrail
chalking a blue November sky…