as if death had lit a pale light
in your flesh, your flesh
was cold to my touch, or not cold
but cool, cooling
“If his songs were allowed to exist in the world—so simply written, so profoundly beautiful —surely there was room for other good, decent things, too.”
I keep trying to persuade my father
into a better opinion of me now that he is dead.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind…
Sweet hyssop and the sweltering hives
from which sail bees, their resolute flight
into July, into my garden.
On his route with a load of papers on his head,
he wasn’t tough enough to scare Michael
who socked him so hard papers flew
like peace doves all over Fifth Avenue.
again April is here
with its sun of brass
and its moon of steel
Tonight I walk through spring sadness, the nostalgia of dreams remembered and foregone, familiar places where we wrote our own epitaph, misspoken lines and rooms seen in the wrong light … Continue reading
Michael Castro 1945 – 2018 while the snow wants to melt winter loiters and I will listen I will listen for you when I need a noun a sudden muscle an animal can use to … Continue reading
Where I grew up, wakes were a sparring ground— furor was the only defense to grief. Someone had to fight the rant of all those flowers. That is how … Continue reading