Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind…
The season was autumn. Threads of smoke
unwound from the chimneys. Every compass pointed
Sweet hyssop and the sweltering hives
from which sail bees, their resolute flight
into July, into my garden.
When his mind grew empty
and his heartbeat slowed to a vague stutter,
our father no longer walked the fields at night.
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
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